


Just Breathe

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Heartache, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martyr Complex, OT5 Friendship, Pining, Zayn-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn’s never known how to love with less than everything, and he’s never known how to say no to someone he loves. It might not be the best combination, but he’s never known how to be anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This happens in some AU where Perrie is off being very happy in Little Mix but for some reason is not with Zayn. I don't know why, make up your own headcanons for it. Don't know anything, don't own, etc. Much love to my beta and Denice for putting up with the heaviness of this fic. 
> 
> Updating schedule: This fic has three chapters, and I'll update about once every 5 days. No exact promises, but I expect the next chapter to be up Saturday-ish. It is all written though, so it will all be posted!

The phone call comes in the middle of the night. Zayn’s just managed to get to sleep—he’s still fighting off a cold he got somewhere on tour, and somehow colds always give him insomnia—but he knows that ringtone, the one of six he always wakes up to. His mom, his dad, his sisters, and—

“Hey, Haz.” He yawns into the phone, and pushes Hatchi off the bed when he decides to be interested in it.

“Zayn!” Harry sounds far too awake for ass o’clock, but Zayn can’t help his smile. He never can. “Zaynie my Zaynie.”

“Harry.” Zayn tries for stern, but he knows he misses it by a long shot. “Harry, it’s late.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Zayn can almost hear Harry’s pout. It’s just as good at getting past his defenses from however far away he is now as it is up close. “But I’m at Ben’s, and I need to leave, and can you come get me?”

“Harry…”

“And I’m kind of drunk?” Zayn could have guessed that, just from the tone. He’s far too good at knowing Harry’s state of mind, just from the speed and timbre of his words. He’d like to say it’s the band, it’s all of them being together so much—but it’s Harry. Zayn’s always paid too much attention to Harry. “And Meredith came home before we thought she would so I had to leave and I don’t want to be alone, Zayn.”

Zayn rubs a hand through his hair. He could tell Harry to get a cab. He could tell Harry to take the fucking Tube, if he has to.

Instead he groans, and gets to his feet. All his limbs feel a bit like lead, and his head’s a little cloudy, but he grabs the nearest jacket to hand—his camo—and pulls it on over his sweats and tank. “I’m coming.”

“You don’t have to.” Harry says, hurriedly. Zayn could almost laugh. Harry needs him, what’s he going to do, stay in bed?

“It’s fine. I’m coming, babe,” he tells Harry, and sets his phone down to find his keys before he heads out into the London drizzle.

He forgot an umbrella, of course, because he’s not even half awake, and that’s probably the same reason it doesn’t occur to him to call a car, but he’s only a little soaked through by the time he hails a cab, and he sort of thaws out inside, asking the driver to crank up the heat. It’s twenty minute cab ride to Ben’s flat, and then Zayn has to get out again so Harry notices him, because of course he forgot his phone along with everything else, and the drizzle’s turned into a downpour by then. The cab waits, but he’s still there for a good five minutes before Harry comes pelting out of the house, rain dusting his skin, his smile wide and bright.

“Zayn!” He exclaims when he gets close enough, grabbing Zayn to hold him close. He smells like vodka and cinnamon and _him_ , and Zayn wraps his arms around him once to breathe him in before Harry’s letting go and tugging him into the cab. “Fuck, you’re soaked, you could have stayed in the cab!” he pokes at Zayn’s soaked-through shoulder, then gives the cabbie Zayn’s address before grabbing Zayn and pulling him into Harry’s chest, rubbing at his arms like he’s trying to warm him up. It’s working, anyway. Or maybe that’s just Harry.  

“Good night?” Zayn asks, as the cab driver pulls onto the empty streets. No one else is mad enough to go out into this downpour. Just Harry. And Zayn after him, always.

“Yeah. I guess. I mean, it was.” Harry’s lips press together briefly before they break into a smile. “Just—couldn’t stay here while Meredith’s here, you know? And I didn’t want to go home. Home’s…empty.” He presses his lips to Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn’s chilled through, but that touch is what makes him shiver. “You’re really cold.”

“Yeah, well someone got me out of my warm bed,” Zayn teases, and trails his fingers through Harry’s hair, undoing the tangles. It’s getting so long that there are almost proper knots, but Zayn eases his way through them. It’s the easiest way to make Harry stay soft. Stay here.

“Well, we can get you back in,” Harry retorts, waggling his eyebrows like he’s making the best joke in the history of jokes. “I’ll warm you up, baby.”

Zayn nods, and forces a smile. Harry’s looking away, he doesn’t even notice how forced it is. “I wasn’t the one freezing on that pier.”

“Heyyyy,” Harry whines, and bumps his head lightly back against Zayn. “That’s not fair. I’m sensitive.”

“You wanted to give Ben an excuse to take you home,” Zayn contradicts, and Harry’s silence is an assent. Zayn just rolls his eyes, and tries to absorb some of Harry’s warmth.

The cab pulls up to Zayn’s house before they can say anymore. Zayn hands over the cash, then slides out, Harry following after. They rush through the rain, and Harry presses close to Zayn as he fumbles with keys with heavy fingers. But eventually they get in, and Harry laughs and shakes out his hair as Zayn peels his jacket off. Fuck, he really is freezing.

“You good?” he asks, toeing off his shoes. Harry’s already barefoot, and going on shirtless. He looks so good, as always, his hair slicked back from his face, his cheeks flushed.  “Want water?”

“Nah, had some before I left.” Harry glances over his shoulder, teasingly coy, almost coquettish. “Come to bed?”

“Shut up,” Zayn mutters, but Harry only laughs. He’s still laughing when he clambers onto the bed next to Zayn, when he curls onto Zayn’s side like he is a heater, laying his head on Zayn’s chest so Zayn’s breathing in hair.

“Thanks,” he mutters, and presses another kiss to Zayn’s collarbone, right over the script. Zayn swallows.

“Anytime, babe.”

“I know. You’re the best, you know that?” Harry grins up at him, his dimples deep in his cheek even in the nighttime dark. “’s why I love you. You haven’t even said anything about it being Ben’s.”

Zayn shrugs. The ‘I love you’ hurts more than the ‘Ben’, and he’s trained himself not to react to that.

“It’s not…he just doesn’t want to rub it in Meri’s face, you know? He loves her too.” Harry yawns, and Zayn can feel his breathing evening out. “You can love more than one person at once.”

“Mm,” Zayn hums. He’s not sure he believes that. He can’t, anyway. He’s only ever been able to love one person at once, and that one person’s been the same for the past two years, and he’s never been able to change that. But maybe it’s true for other people. Maybe it’s true for Ben, that he can love Meredith and Harry both. He hopes it is, for Harry’s sake. Hopes this is everything Harry’s ever dreamed of.

“You can,” Harry insists, but he’s vague, drifting off to sleep. Zayn closes his eyes, to savor the moment. To savor Harry lying close to him in bed, like he could almost pretend it’s real. Like he could almost pretend that he meant the ‘I love you’ like Zayn wanted him to.

“Sure you can, babe,” Zayn murmurs, running a hand down Harry’s back. He’s cool to the touch. But he’s already asleep, and it’s Zayn who lies awake listening to him breathe, trying to convince himself that if he goes to sleep everything will be okay there.

\---

Harry’s gone when Zayn wakes up.

No. That’s not how he can think about it, Zayn tells himself sternly. Harry’s gone, yeah, but it’s not like they had a one night stand and he crept out of bed. Harry wouldn’t do that. And he wouldn’t do that to Zayn, or to anyone, because he’s faithful to Ben, in his way. And anyway, Harry’s gone, but there’s a note saying _You’re the best I’m so sorry for waking you up and getting you cold! Hope the pancakes warm you up. Love you!_ _< 3 __:)_ on his nightstand under his phone. Zayn can’t help his smile again when he stumbles into the kitchen to make tea and notices the pancakes in the oven, even through his morning-fogginess.

He’s not particularly hungry, but he scarfs down one before jumping in the shower. It doesn’t really clear his mind, or his sinuses for that matter, but it’s enough that he can find his way to the car waiting outside to take him to the studio for…something, fuck, he can’t even remember. He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear them, and grabs a cigarette from the pack that’s thankfully in his pocket. No one will expect him to be on time, he’ll have a chance to smoke it before he goes in.

It’s cold but he shivers his way through the cigarette anyway, letting it calm his nerves, clear his head a little, even if he coughs at it like he hasn’t in years. He’s just stubbing out the butt when a body hits his from the side, and Zayn nearly stumbles before he catches Louis around the waist, laughing. 

“Hey.” He rubs at his throat, tries to swallow out the roughness. “Hey, bro.”

“Hey.” Louis gives his arm a squeeze, then steps back. It’s not like they didn’t see each other a few days ago, and like they haven’t been texting, but Louis’s like that, needs to check up on him. “You look awful.”

“Thanks.” Zayn rubs at his throat again. “Real flattering, Lou.”

“No, mate, you look exhausted.” Zayn knows he doesn’t make a face, doesn’t give anything away, but it’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t have to. Louis just lets out an irritated breath. “He got you up again last night, didn’t he?”

“Louis, he was drunk.” Zayn reaches out a hand to rest it on Louis’s arm, to soothe him. Louis lets him, lets him lead him into the building, but his eyes are still glinting.

“You’re exhausted. If he wants to get off with people and then not sleep, that’s his business, but he doesn’t have to drag you into it. And—”

“Let it go, Louis,” Zayn closes his eyes, rubs his nose with the back of his hand. He wishes he felt more with it. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. You could just tell him no.”

Zayn snorts. They both know that’s not going to happen. They both know Zayn’s never done that, and he’s never going to do that, because he can’t. It’s like something in him can’t function knowing Harry needs him and he’s not there, knowing something might be wrong with Harry and he’s not fixing it. Knowing Harry might be unhappy.

Louis sighs, and slides his arm around Zayn’s waist as they head upstairs towards the offices, following people’s directions until they’re in the right place. Sometimes it’s nice, having a face everyone recognizes. Everyone always knows where you’re supposed to go.

When he goes to open the door, though, Louis stops him. His expression has calmed, into something serious, something so sincere Zayn wants to look away from the love in it, the simple uncomplicated love Louis has for him, for all his boys. “Really, Zayn,” Louis says softly, looking into his eyes like he can see through him. “You’ve got to stop. It’s not healthy.”

Zayn holds back the cough trying to find its way out of his throat. “I’m fine,” he repeats. He is. He’s fine. He’s in love with Harry, and it’s fine, it’s the same fine it’s been for the last two years, it’s the same fine as he’s always been when Harry climbs into his bed and leaves him pancakes and grins that come hither grin at him and whispers secrets to him in the night and listens to all Zayn’s messes and never judges, just makes him laugh.

Louis’s gaze doesn’t falter for a long minute, then he just sighs and looks away to open the door. They both know it’s a lost cause.

Through some miracle, it looks like they’re not late. Niall and Harry are already there, chatting about something as they munch on pastries on a table. Zayn takes one look at Harry, in his tight jeans and flowing, half-unbuttoned shirt, and goes to sit on the couch. He can get more sleep in, maybe. Something to chase away the headache, to stop his throat from aching. He can’t have his throat ache. He needs his throat, it’s valuable. It might even be insured, he’s not sure

“Hey.” Zayn doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who’s fit himself next to him, into all the spots Zayn’s left. There’s only one person who fits like that. “You okay?”

Zayn opens his eyes, then shuts them immediately. Harry’s too close, Zayn’s entire vision filled with dancing eyes and dimples and full lips, and he needs a second to process that, to battle it down. When he thinks he can, he opens his eyes again. It still aches. Just…an ache he can deal with, deep in his chest where it’s sat for so long.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Have tea.” Harry hands over a paper cup, then turns and settles down so his head is resting on Zayn’s thigh. “Did you like my pancakes?”

“They were delicious,” Zayn informs him, and Harry grins up at him, bright and pleased and Zayn never wants him to stop doing that, never ever.

“Well, I always sleep so well with you,” Harry explains. Zayn swallows down some scalding tea. He can’t—Harry just says things like that, has always been the problem. Just says things that make Zayn almost hope, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Even though he knows it’s pointless and stupid and Harry will never feel for him like he does for Harry, every time he thinks he’s starting to get over him Harry says something like that and he’s back. “Figured I’d give something back, even if it’s not nearly enough.”

“You give plenty back,” Zayn replies. There’s a snort that sounds like Louis, but when Zayn glances over Louis’s talking intently to Niall and Liam, who showed up at some point. He gives Liam a welcoming smile when their eyes meet, and looks away before he knows the question that’s going to come into Liam’s eyes appears.

“I know. I give you pancakes.” Harry’s smile is cheeky this time, and Zayn can’t help poking at his dimples until Harry wrinkles his nose in protest. “No fair. You don’t have anything for me to poke back.”

“Not my fault I don’t have dimples.”

“Nah, dimples would mar your perfection.” There it is again. He doesn’t even know. Doesn’t know Zayn saves up those statements to play back to himself on rainy nights when he knows exactly where Harry is and it isn’t with him, when he’s trying so hard to convince himself to let go but can’t quite get there.

“Oh! Hey, I wanted to ask your opinion, but I was too tired last night. What do you think of this for me and Ben’s one year?” Harry fiddles with his phone, then pulls out an image of a pair of silver cuff links in the shape of music notes.

Zayn notes the four digit price tag, but schools his face to blankness. “They’re nice. Don’t know if he’d go for the notes, though? More a you kind of thing.”

Harry’s lips purse. “Yeah, I guess.” He sighs, and clicks his phone off. “Have any other ideas?”

Zayn rubs at his throat, to give himself time and because it really is hurting. He can’t do this. “You know I’m shit at presents. Ask Liam, he likes buying shit.”

“But Liam will make the judgey face at me.” Harry puts on his best pout, the one’s Zayn’s even more helpless than usual in the face of. “You’re the only one who doesn’t make judgey faces at me when I talk about Ben, you have to help!”

Zayn sighs, then winces when it hurts. “Get him scotch. The nice stuff. He likes it.”

And it doesn’t seem like too much, Zayn doesn’t say. It’s not a declaration of love.

“Yeah!” Harry bounces, and reaches up to pat Zayn’s cheek in praise. “You’re brilliant, that’s great. How are you so good?”

Because I know what I’d like to get from you, Zayn thinks but doesn’t say. Because I’ve imagined our anniversary a thousand times and I have all sorts of gifts imagined.

Instead, he just smiles softly, and catches Harry’s hand to move it down to his stomach. “I’m always brilliant, Haz.”

“I know. It’s why you’re the best for advice.” Zayn snorts. Yeah, he’s so good at advice. His love life is just thriving. Harry makes his most earnest face. “No, you know I appreciate it, right? Everyone else judges, and you don’t. You just, get it. You’ve never told me I’m a homewrecker or Ben is an awful person or anything, and I don’t thank you for that enough. It means a lot to me.”

Zayn bites at his lip, looks at his hand on Harry’s head rather than at his happy eyes or his smiling lips or any part of him that makes Zayn _want_ , which is all of him.

No, he doesn’t blame Ben. He doesn’t blame anyone for falling for Harry, because god knew if Harry had come on to him like he’d come on to Ben, Zayn wouldn’t have hesitated. Harry hadn’t even needed to focus all that attention, all that intense energy on him for him to fall down the rabbit hole, so deep he’d never find his way out. So no, Zayn doesn’t blame Ben. He just wishes he agreed with Harry that he thought it could end happily.

Harry thinks he’s so grown up about it, is the thing. He thinks he’s being so cool and mature, sharing Ben, knowing that Ben can love more than one person and it doesn’t matter, doesn’t make their love any less real. That just because Ben’s married doesn’t mean they can’t be in love. But he’s not grown up. Zayn isn’t either, of course, but Zayn’s never been able to be rash, not like Harry is, and he has to look ahead, and he doesn’t know how Harry expects it to end. Harry wants a family, wants a baby and domesticity, and Ben’s not going to leave his wife. Harry knows that. Zayn knows that. Everyone knows that. So no, Zayn doesn’t judge anyone. He’s just waiting for the heartbreak, and dreading it.

“You know I’m always there for you, Haz,” He tells Harry. Harry doesn’t know how much he means it, of course, but he has to say it, with his hand back in Harry’s hair and his gaze drinking in as much of Harry as he can get. “Whatever you need.”

“You too, you know that—”

“Harry!” Liam calls from across the room. “Hey, come over and tell Louis your idea for that song you had.”

“Right!” Harry leaps to has feet, nearly trips until Zayn reaches out to steady him, than thanks Zayn with a quick grin and heads over to where Louis and Liam are messing about in a notebook. Over his shoulder, Liam gives Zayn a long look. Zayn ducks his head. He was smooth, once. He had game. He didn’t need his bandmates to save him from the mess he had become.

“’s okay,” Niall tells him, taking the space Harry had left. “Want to go back to sleep?”

Zayn nods into his shoulder, and settles against him for a nap. Niall’s nice and warm, and Zayn huddles close, trying to absorb it. It’s not as good as Harry last night. But it’s something.

\---

Zayn wakes up to the sound of someone banging around in the kitchen. His bed’s empty, he notices vaguely, which means Harry’s only recently vacated it; otherwise the cats would already be there. There’s a second where he thinks he’s still dreaming, because his pillows smell like Harry and he’s just on the right side of sleep—then something bangs, and no, Zayn’s awake. If he was dreaming, Harry would still be in bed with hi, and he wouldn’t feel all stuffy and have this god awful headache.

But he does. And now that he’s awake, he remembers Harry sliding into bed with him for the fifth night in a row, smelling of alcohol and muttering nearly incoherent things about how he wanted Zayn. It must have taken him a long time to get settled, because Zayn had woken up long enough for it to register, but Harry was a fussy sleeper when he was drunk, tossing and turning to get comfortable, so it didn’t surprise Zayn.

Zayn groans, but Harry in his kitchen means he’s baking something, which means he’s here still, and Zayn—Zayn wants to savor that. So he drags himself out of bed, then to the bathroom to swallow three advil to hopefully make his headache go down, and brushes his teeth. He’s on his way to the kitchen, where maybe he can get coffee that will make him wake up enough that he’ll be able to think during the interview this afternoon, when there’s a sharp knock on the front door, then it swings open.

“Zayn?” Louis calls. He slams the door shut, hard enough it makes Zayn wince and rub at his temples. He didn’t drink last night, why is he hung over? “Zayn, you can’t still be asleep, it’s nearly—good.” Louis grins when he catches sight of Zayn, but it freezes when he takes a good look. Zayn just saw himself in the mirror, he doesn’t look that bad. “Did you just wake up?”

“Yeah?” Zayn yawns into the back of his hand, but it turns into a cough. “Not that late, is it?”

“It’s almost two,” Louis tells him, showing him his phone for proof. It is, fuck. They’ve got the interview at, like, four or something. “When’d you get to sleep last night? You didn’t answer your phone at mid—” Something clangs in the kitchen, and Louis’s face goes sharp. “That better not be who I think it is.”

Zayn shrugs. “Who do you think it is?”

“Well I’m hoping it’s your mum,” Louis retorts, already halfway down the hall. Zayn trots to keep up. He needs to cut back on cigarettes, he’s already panting. “But—” He rounds the corner, and there’s Harry messing around with the pans, in just boxers and an apron. He looks so good there, humming quietly to himself as he does the washing up, all legs and skin and muscle that Zayn can’t help but drink in.

“Fuck, really Zayn?” Louis snaps. It gets Harry’s attention, so he spins and jumps and almost knocks over a baking sheet. The metal clang echoes in Zayn’s head loudly enough he has to rub at his temples.

“Louis!” He yelps. Then, “Zayn! You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, and slumps against the threshold. He doesn’t have the energy for what he knows is coming. He just wants to crawl back into bed and take Harry with him, because no one cuddles like Harry does, wants to bury his face in Harry’s hair and hope that lets him breathe.

“Thought you were going to sleep all day,” Harry adds. He drops the sponge in the sink, then comes over to wrap his arms around Zayn. He’s cool, refreshingly so. “Are you okay? You were coughing a lot.”

“I’m fine.” It’s just a stupid cold, he doesn’t know why people are fussing. “What are you making?”

“I’m sorry for waking you up again cookies?” Harry gives him his most winning grin, and Zayn feels himself melt, if he had ever been annoyed. “I know it’s annoying, and I really don’t mean to but you know me when I’m drunk, I’ve got no control, and—”

“So go to your boyfriend’s,” Louis cuts in sharply. Zayn glares at him over Harry’s shoulder. He knows Louis’s just trying to help, but he doesn’t—he gets Harry, now. For these few hours when he’s drunk and curled up next to Zayn, Harry’s his. He can’t give that up. “That’s what a boyfriend’s for, isn’t it?”

“I can’t,” Harry retorts, and lets go of Zayn. Zayn’s hands slide back down to his sides, as he shakes a little at the loss of Harry’s skin. “Meredith’s there, and Ben doesn’t want me around too much when she’s in town, says it’s not fair to her.”

“Really, him sleeping with you isn’t fair to his wife when she’s in town.” Louis drips sarcasm. “How nice of him.”

“Louis!” Harry spins, crosses his hands on his chest to glare. “It’s not like that! He loves her, and they have a very fulfilling sex life that keeps her perfectly satisfied. She’s said so.”

“So what, he needs to fuck you too to be satisfied?”

“Louis.” Zayn snaps. He can’t deal with this, not this early. Not when Harry’s half naked in his kitchen, and he can just imagine Ben fucking him in his kitchen, bending him over the counter and drawing his hand up the curve of his ass. When he can imagine pushing Harry against the sink and sinking to his knees in front of him, so Harry would just stay here, and not go back there. “Leave it.”

“Fine.” Louis huffs out a breath. “Fine, I just think—”

“Leave it,” Zayn repeats, though the sternness is undercut by another cough. Harry’s starting to get the face he has when he’s attacked, like he’s halfway between tears and yelling, and the Advil is starting to kick in but not enough to deal with yelling. He draws in a breath to make sure Louis stays quiet—then a coughing fit takes over, ripping through his chest so he has to brace himself on the door jamb to hold himself up.

“Zayn!” Harry’s there in an instant, an arm around his waist; a second later Louis’s is on his shoulders, and at least they’re not arguing anymore. Instead, they both just look worried, Harry’s eyes big and plaintive.

“I’m fine.” He steadies himself against Harry, letting him sink into it for a second. “Just, breathed in wrong or something.”

“Are you sure?” Harry’s peering deep into his eyes like he can find some deep truth there, but Zayn’s deep truth for Harry isn’t hidden in him, it’s written all over him. Instead, all Zayn can see are those clear green eyes filling his vision, brilliant enough he could sink into them and lose himself completely. He could write poems to those eyes, odes—he might have, once or twice, scribbles down lyrics about green eyes and dimples that he immediately ripped up and once even burned. He—

“Zayn,” Louis bites out, and Zayn jerks back. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Zayn says, for what must be the thousandth time. He doesn’t need them worrying over him. He’s not Louis’s problem, and Harry’s got enough stuff to deal with. Zayn’s not blind enough to not see how he’s been drunk every night this week, drunk and going from Ben’s bed to Zayn’s, even if he hasn’t said anything to Zayn about it yet. He’ll get there when he needs to, knows Zayn will always listen, but in the mean time Zayn doesn’t need him worrying.

Luckily, Benji chooses that moment to twine around his legs, and Zayn stoops to pick him up. “You’ve been hiding,” he murmurs, because it’s safer to talk to cats. “Scared of all the people around?”

“He’s not scared of me,” Harry announces proudly. He reaches out to scratch his head, and his finger brush over Zayn’s. Zayn, as always, swallows down the rush of heat and electricity and need even that simple touch sparks in him. “He likes me.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Louis mutters, then louder, “Okay, Zayn, we’re going out for lunch before the interview. Harry probably needs to go home for once.”

“I’m not hungry.” And Harry’s here. He knows Louis’s trying to be a good friend, giving him distance, but that doesn’t help.

“No, it’s fine.” Harry grins, and steps away, like it’s not a big deal. Because it isn’t, to him. “I should go home to change, can’t always steal your clothes, even if it is, like, proper revenge, because of tour? You’ve still got my jumper here, the big green one, you now? Or I think it’s here, because I asked Ben and he hasn’t seen it, and it’s not at mine—”

“Harry.” Zayn can’t help his smile, at Harry’s rambling.

“Right.” Harry’s nose wrinkles as he draws his thoughts back together. “Anyway. You should have some apology cookies, and I’ll see you later.” He grins at Louis, then presses a kiss to Zayn’s cheek. Zayn can’t help leaning into it, either, savoring the feeling of Harry’s lips on his skin.

But when Harry draws back, his brow is furrowed. “Are you sure you’re okay? You feel warm.”

“’m fine,” Zayn repeats. He needs to record that or something, so people stop asking him, because it’s hurting his throat to answer. It’s just a cold. Harry gets colds all the time, and Zayn’s the only one who fusses then. “But you could, like, get lunch with us, if you wanted.”

“Nah, thanks though. I smell like vodka.” Harry holds out an arm to demonstrate, but he just smells like Harry to Zayn, like warmth and comfort and laughter. “And I need to call Ben, see what we’re up to tonight.”

“I thought you were coming out with us,” Louis adds. He throws an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, but it’s not like Zayn needs bracing against that, against Ben. It’s never been about Ben. It’s been in spite of him, if anything. In spite of Harry thinking he won’t get hurt.

“I am! All five of us, right? Musketeers.” Harry grins, dimpling. “But I might go to Ben’s after, if he’s free.”

“There are only three musketeers,” Zayn points out. He doesn’t need Louis’s arm, but it’s nice, because he can hold Benji in one arm and let his head droop onto Louis’s shoulder with the other. He just wants to go back to bed. “Or, four if you count D’Artagnan?”

“Well, Liam and Niall can split one,” Harry decides, “’Cause they’re not here to claim one.” Zayn snorts, then rubs at his chest at the pain there. He’s getting really psychosomatic, if his heart is actually hurting. “I should go. Eat your apology cookies, they’re good, special for you.” He taps Zayn’s chest, then pushes past them.  

Zayn leans into Louis more as he hears Harry let himself into Zayn’s room to get dressed. Louis, thank God, keeps quiet as Harry dresses and leaves, shutting the door with a final “Later!”

“Zayn—”

“Not now?” Zayn shakes his head, as much as he can with how it’s resting on Louis, too heavy to hold up on his own. “I need to sleep until the interview.”

“You just woke up!”

“And I’m tired again,” Zayn counters evenly, because it’s the only way to argue against Louis.

“What about food?”

“I’m not hungry.” Zayn squeezes Louis’s waist, then slides away. “Thanks for stopping by, mate. You can chill if you want.”

Louis sticks out his tongue. “I see where I’m not wanted. Get some sleep. Maybe this time Harry won’t wake you up.”

“It’s only two hours.”

“Yeah, well, he can’t stop running to you every other time,” Louis snaps. Zayn blinks.

“What?”

“Just you could not pick up your phone every bloody time,” Louis goes on. He turns to brace himself against the counter, so he can properly look at Zayn. He doesn’t even look angry, is the worst. Zayn usually just ignores angry Louis, because it’s usually not worth bothering with. “Maybe get a full night’s sleep.”

“But he needs me.” Zayn will never be able to ignore someone in need, especially not if it’s Harry. “He could, like, be hurt or something.”

“That’s not why you do it, and you know it.” Zayn rubs at his temples again. It feels like the Advil’s already wearing off, and he’s gotten cold, in his sweatpants and vest. He wants to huddle under his covers again. Louis must catch the motion, because Zayn can see the moment he decides Zayn’s too vulnerable to nag. “Fine. Get some sleep, bro. I’ll call and make sure you’re awake in time.”

“Thanks.” Zayn smiles at Louis, because he isn’t pushing, because he knows he’s just trying to help. “And, like—thanks.”

“Yeah. Well, if you’d just—no, fuck it. Go to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, and manages to hold in the coughing fit until Louis is gone so he’ll actually get out the door.

\---

When the phone rings, Zayn answers it on reflex, dislodging two cats as he throws his arm over to get the phone. “Haz?” he answers, without looking. His voice sounds rough, or it feels it. He just needs to sleep, he thinks, for once. Just lie down and sleep for a week, without fans or pressure or unrequited love to deal with, and then he would feel good again for once. “What’s up? Where are you?”

There’s a low chuckle, and it feels like something settles in his chest just from that, like his headache recedes and his breath comes easier. “Bradford, funnily enough,” his mother replies, and Zayn flops back onto his pillows.

“Mum.” He takes a deep breath to settle himself in her voice, then coughs.

“That sounds nasty,” she remarks. Zayn shrugs. Because it’s her, she knows, and doesn’t question. “Well, make sure you drink plenty of fluids, and nothing crazy,” she warns. “If I see pictures of you out and about looking ill, I’m coming down.”

“Mummmm,” he whines. “I’m twenty-three.”

“And there are some bonuses to having your son being famous,” she teases back. It feels like home. “One of them is he can’t properly hide, even if he doesn’t come home anymore.”

Just like that, the warmth turns into a shiver. Zayn curls his legs up under the blanket, tucking his head in closer. “I’m sorry.”

She sighs too, and that’s also a familiar sound, even if Zayn hates that it is. “I didn’t mean it like that, honey. I know you’re busy. I just like to make sure you’re happy. Do you have a break soon? The girls would love to see you.”

Zayn thinks for a second. It’s not a thing he does usually, planning vacations ahead this much—he’s more the, go home whenever he has a second kind of person—but they have four days soon, a sort of pre-blast break for all of them to properly recharge. It’s enough time for him to go home, if not for long. But it really wouldn’t be for long. And Harry is having so many problems—he’s been in Zayn’s bed drunk every night—where would he go if he didn’t have Zayn? What would happen? Would he find one of the other boys, or Nick, or someone else? Or would something worse happen? And four days isn’t really enough time to properly settle in, with travel on either end, and the girls are always so busy he doesn’t see them much if he’s not there for long.

“Honey?” his mother prompts.

“Sorry. No,” he says, rolling onto his back again. He’s still cold, and he really doesn’t want to go outside. “I don’t think I’ll have time soon. You should come down! Bring the girls, maybe get dad to come.”

“We’ll see,” his mom allows, “Meanwhile, did you see the pictures of Safaa’s recital I sent? She’ll be as good as you, soon.”

“Don’t doubt it,” Zayn agrees, and ignores his sudden coldness to listen to his mom catch up him up.

She’s just telling him about Waliyha’s new boyfriend when Louis barges in without knocking, shoots him a hard, exasperated look. “If that’s Harry—” he starts, but Zayn shakes his head and glares back. Louis’s not good at resisting people who stand up to him.

“Sorry, mum,” he stresses the last word, and Louis rolls his eyes but shuts up. “I’ve got to go, got an interview. I’ll talk to you later, yeah? And you should come down.”

“I’ll discuss it with your father,” she allows. He can hear the smile in her voice. “Miss you, love.”

“Miss you too, mum.” He doesn’t bother being quiet about it. The boys all know. “Tell dad and the girls I love them.”

“We know,” she says, fondly enough it almost hurts, and hangs up the phone.

Louis doesn’t even say anything when Zayn sets the phone down, just waits, leaning against the door, so Zayn can bring himself back. Back from Bradford and the quiet ease of home, back from the warm spices of his mother’s kitchen and the yells of his sisters. That’s all he wants. To be home, with his mother feeding him soup and his blankets pulled over his head.

Except he wants other things too. He wants the fans screaming his name, and the feeling when he’s on stage and it’s like he’s riding lightning, the best high he’s ever had. He wants Harry in bed with him, mouthing idly at his shoulder as they whisper secrets. He wants nights in hotels when all five of them are there draining the minibar laughing at shit no one else gets. He wants his throat to stop hurting.

“You good?” Louis asks at last. He manages to sound both comforting and impatient, which is pretty impressive. “We’ve sort of got to go.”

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs, and rolls to his feet, wrapping his arms around himself. Why did he put the heat so low? He needs to turn it up. “I’m good.”

\---

The interview goes…fine. It’s not good, or at least not brilliant, Zayn doesn’t think. Not that he’d really know, because he still feels drained and a little foggy. But one of the good things about being ‘the mysterious one’ is no one really expects him to talk, so he can just sit there and concentrate on not falling asleep. It helps that he’s still cold, even though he has his warmest sweater on. Or at least he’s still shivering. He tries to hide it, because it makes all the boys give him odd looks, but luckily there’s a seat open next to Niall on the couch and he settles there. Niall won’t worry. It’s the best thing about him.

They all plan to go out right after the interview, go to a few bars then probably end up at a club because Liam’s been insisting. But they’ve just bid farewell to the interviewer and are waiting around for the car when Harry’s phone buzzes

It’s Ben. Zayn knows it’s Ben, because Harry’s face does something very unique when he’s talking to Ben, something incandescently happy but also ingratiating, like he’s trying so hard not to beam. It’s a little sad—Harry’s never so lovely as when he’s beaming, all his enthusiasm and love pouring out of him—but it makes it distinctive. And even if that wasn’t enough, the way he ducks out of the room is, his phone held to his ear.

Zayn has to watch him go, to trace the contours of his, to wish he could bring that to Harry’s face. But when he turns back, three pairs of eyes are fixed on him.

“What?” he goes for casual, thinks he pulls it off. “Is the car here yet?”

“Zayn, come—”

Zayn cuts Louis off, because he doesn’t need to hear this anymore. “Is it? I think I hear P—” he breaks off coughing. Shit. He should have tea before he goes out. Maybe he can convince the driver to stop somewhere. And tea will keep him warm, too.

“I’m fine,” he snaps before any of them can say anything, curling his arms around him to conserve heat. Thank god, Paul comes in then, cutting off all the things Louis looks ready to say.

“One car’s here,” he announces, “The next’ll be along soon. Where’s Harry?”

“Talking to someone,” Niall replies easily. They aren’t entirely sure if Paul knows or not, or if he would approve, so it’s been tacitly agreed not to say anything to him. Zayn figures he knows. Paul knows all their secrets, no matter if they try to keep it from him. And he gives Zayn sympathetic looks sometimes, so he definitely knows Zayn’s secret. Not that it’s a secret anymore, not really. Harry’s probably the only one who doesn’t know. If he doesn’t. Zayn’s never even been sure of that, he’s so obvious. “Could take forever.”

“Probably will,” Louis agrees. “Why doesn’t someone wait? I—” He’s got that look on, the one he gets when he’s going to make a scene, and it’s pointing towards Zayn, so Zayn interrupts him again before he can get started.

“Good idea, Tommo. You wait. We can go ahead,” he suggests, nodding at Liam and Niall.

Niall glances at Liam, and they seem to be discussing something without talking. Zayn can’t be bothered to figure out what it is. “I’ll wait with Lou,” Niall counters easily. “Keep him amused while Haz plays. You two go on.”

Zayn nods. He just wants to leave. “Sure.”

“Great.” Liam grins at Zayn, and Zayn’s lips curl despite themselves. He can’t stand against Liam’s earnest joy, never could. “C’mon, Zee. Let’s leave these losers.”

“Who’s the one who hasn’t seen the sun in three days?” Louis retorts, and Zayn flips him off before following Liam outside, into the car.

Being with Liam feels a bit like being with his mum—something easy, something relaxing. Zayn’s probably closest with Louis now, out of all the boys, but he’s never forgotten what it was like just starting out, when everything, Louis included, was so loud and overwhelming, and he and Liam would hide out together and read comics until everything settled. Liam still does that for him, letting him lean against him in the car and take in his warmth, steady out his breathing. Settles him.

He’s almost asleep again, lulled by the movement of the car and the way he can use Liam’s breaths to time his own, when Liam speaks.  “Zayn,” he says, and Zayn braces himself even before the words come out. That’s Liam’s concerned tone. He only uses that when he’s being earnest and intrusive. “We need to talk about Harry.”

The words still hurt. Louis’s one thing, Louis’s all confrontation and managing and confidence, but Liam—Liam’s supposed to know him. Liam’s supposed to be his safe space, not bring things in he really doesn’t want to talk about. “What about him?” Zayn snaps back. He pulls away from Liam, so he’s properly in the other seat. It just make Liam’s gaze go even more concerned. “He’s doing his thing. He’s fine.”

“But you aren’t.” Zayn snorts, swallows back the cough, but Liam’s always been horribly, inexorably insistent. “No, Zayn, you aren’t, and we’re worried.”

“We?” Of course. This is an ambush. “Is this, like, an intervention?”

“No!” Liam’s eyes skate away from Zayn’s face like they always do when he’s lying. “Well, only a little. You just can’t keep doing what you’re doing with Harry. It’s not…”

“Sustainable,” Zayn fills in. Liam nods.

“Yeah, sustainable. You’re pulling yourself apart for him.”

“I’m together,” Zayn protests sharply. It’s a little undercut by the way a shiver shakes through him. But that’s just a cold. That’s not, like, falling apart or anything.

“For now, but Zayn, you can’t…he’ll keep using you until you say no, you know that right?”

“He’s not using me.”

“He is.” Liam shakes his head. “He doesn’t mean to and he wouldn’t if you ever said anything, but he is. He’s using you to make him feel better about that whole Ben thing.”

Zayn rubs at his temples. He knows, is the thing. He knows that. He just…likes to forget. Likes to pretend Harry crawls into his bed because he wants Zayn, because at that moment he needs Zayn more than anyone else, not because there’s someone else in Ben’s bed and Zayn’s second choice.

“I can’t, Li.” It’s the sad, sad truth of it. “I can’t—he needs to feel better about it, and I help.”

“But you don’t help you,” Liam argues, leaning forward. “When’s the last time you slept through the night, Zayn?”

“I don’t know, I don’t keep track.”

“You don’t?”

Sometimes, Zayn hates how well these boys know him. He looks out the window, to the streets of London flying by. It makes him a little dizzy. “Fine, like, a week. But it’s not—”

“You’ve got to take care of yourself.” Liam puts a hand on Zayn’s knee. Usually, that’s comfort, an anchor; it feels intrusive now, like Liam’s trying to cage him in, with his too cool hand and how he might be able to feel Zayn shaking. “You’ve—can’t you just, try to get over him?”

Zayn laughs with no humor. “No, Liam, I’ve never thought of that. Brilliant idea. I’ll just do that now.”

“Zayn—”

“Poof, it’s done! I’m over him. Nothing’s wrong, your job is done, you’ve fixed me! It’s a miracle.” It’s not fair, Zayn knows Liam is just trying to help, but he’s so done with this topic, with people telling him things he already knows about how unhealthy his infatuation is, with Liam’s earnest face and how he just can’t breathe. “I’ve never tried it before, I’ll just be over him! It’ll all go back to how it was two years ago, before I fucked it up, and you can stop worrying. Perfect, yeah? I’ll start ignoring his face and his eyes and his cuddling and—”

“Zayn!” Liam’s voice is quick and stern, his serious voice. Zayn’s been trained over the last four years to be quelled by it, but he still opens his mouth to keep talking, but Liam talks over him, relentless and horribly kind. “Zayn, he is not the only one who cares about you.”

“Well fuck that!” The car pulls to a stop, and Zayn shoves the door open almost before it comes to a full stop. “It’s not that—I can’t, okay? I’ve tried and I can’t and it doesn’t matter how much you all fucking care about me it’s useless! I’m dealing with it, so just let me ruin my life on my own.” He slams the door behind him, then takes a second to breathe, or try to. He can’t—there are people here, who will see him getting out of a car with Liam. He can’t look as furious as he is. He can’t look as weak as he feels, with Liam’s words about how he needs to finish this echoing in him, like it’s taking the place of air in his lungs.

But he also can’t stay here, because Liam’s incapable of letting anything go, and he’s getting out now too, his eager gaze settling on Zayn. So Zayn fixes his face into a smile, and sweeps into the bar. He needs to get drunk. That will help. That will help calm him down, maybe warm him up as well.

\---

The alcohol doesn’t warm him up, but it distracts him, even if he’s not going hard because he’s not stupid enough to drink on a cold, no matter what Louis and Liam seem to think. He knows what he’s doing. He can take care of himself, he doesn’t need anyone else to help him. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him when he’s being stupid and making bad choices.

So he just doesn’t say anything to Liam when he joins him in the booth Zayn had claimed in the bar, and doesn’t address the looks Louis and Niall give Liam and him when they get here. He doesn’t need them worrying over him. He’s not even going home to let his actual mum do that.

Instead, he watches Harry, watches him smile and laugh and make friends with the entire bar, taking pictures with a few fans and laughing with others, lighting up the whole room. Sometimes Harry glances back at the table, at Zayn, and grins, like he’s pleased Zayn’s there, like he’s pleased Zayn’s watching him get steadily drunker.

He makes sure to be in Harry’s car when they head to the next bar, partly because he knows no one will bring anything up with Harry in the car, and partly because—Harry. Because Harry is warm in a way Zayn can’t be right now, because Harry slides in close beside him in the car and their thighs are pressing together and Zayn really is this needy, that he’ll take that over anything else, even if Niall gives him a hard look when he slides in on the other side of Harry. But with Harry and Niall, together, Zayn can’t help but laugh, can’t help but get taken out of his head at least a little. Which is good, because his head is killing him like the hangover’s set in early, and his chest is hurting like—just like.

Harry gets out of the car first, then Zayn—or he would, if Niall didn’t grab his arm. Zayn glances back, and Niall—Niall has that same fucking look on, the concern and pity and everything else Zayn just doesn’t want, can’t deal with right now.

“You don’t have to come,” Niall points out, “The car could take you—”

“Just fucking leave it,” Zayn snaps. Niall recoils, surprised, and Zayn shoves out of the car for the second time that night.  Fucking hell. He just needs—he just needs to think. He just needs his head to stop feeling so fuzzy. He needs to sleep. He needs everyone to go away. He needs to be in bed with Harry next to him, because things make sense there.

Zayn pushes into the bar ahead of everyone else again, finds a corner booth where hopefully no one will notice him. He can’t interact with fans, not tonight. Not when he’ll probably start coughing and then everyone will decide it means he’s dying of lung cancer. Not when he just snapped at Niall, fuck, he doesn’t do that.

The corner works, though. Niall glances around when he comes in at last—probably stopped to wait for Louis and Liam—but he doesn’t seem to see Zayn, and they all head to the bar. Harry’s already there, even if he’s half texting on his phone, and they all gather together. Liam’s hand is resting on Harry’s shoulder, and Niall lets his head rest on Louis, and why can’t it be that easy anymore? Zayn just wants to be over there. He wants to run away. He wants them to look at him, to tell him he’s okay. He wants to go home. He doesn’t even know.

So instead, he gets up, and after a quick word with the manager he heads outside, where at least he can have a cigarette and let that settle him. He’ll take the comfort of it over watching the other boys, over watching Harry laugh and flirt and not need Zayn at all, not like he needs Harry.

He leans against the wall in the back. It’s an alleyway, far enough away from the streets that the paparazzi won’t look for him here, he hopes. Not with the other boys so obviously inside, anyway. That’s where they’ll focus. He hopes.

It seems to work, because he’s alone as he light the cigarette. He takes a long breath in—and starts hacking, bent over and bracing his arm against the rough concrete. Fuck, he can’t even have this.

But he tries again, and a slower drag works a bit better, even if it scrapes over his throat. He needs the nicotine, though, so he’ll suffer through it. And isn’t that just the story of his life, that he’ll take the pain because of his addiction.

He blows out the smoke, leaning back against the wall. It feels cool against his skin, and he shivers again. He should go inside; it’s warmer in there, he thinks. But inside is all the things he can’t handle, all the pitying looks and thick air so heavy he’s reeling. Out here, he can close his eyes, pretend he’s asleep. Pretend he’s home.

“Zayn!” And there it is, drawing him back, like always; Harry’s voice, thick as the air inside. Harry’s arms, as he throws himself at Zayn, wraps his arms around Zayn’s side and hugs him tight, like he doesn’t want to let go. “Zayn, what’re you doing here? I couldn’t find you.”

“Having a smoke,” Zayn explains, raising the cigarette in explanation. His other arm wraps around Harry’s shoulders, because he can’t not. Because this is his other addiction.

“Well, you should come inside and do it, because I’m inside.” Harry frowns, his lip jutting out. “Or I was, until I came out here.”

“Sorry, babe.” Zayn chuckles. Everything’s easier, when Harry’s here. That’s what the other boys don’t get, when they tell him to stop. It only hurts when Harry’s not around. Or, no, it hurts less when Harry’s around, or the lightness makes up for the pain of knowing it’s going to end.

Harry’s frown melts immediately into a grin. “You’re smiling!”

“I noticed?”

“You haven’t been smiling lately,” Harry says, and paws lightly at Zayn’s face, like he does sometimes. Zayn shuts his eyes, because he needs to concentrate on this, on Harry’s fingertips brushing over his skin, and not how the wall is starting to be necessary to hold him up. “God, you’re so pretty when you smile.”

“Yeah?” Zayn’s voice is even, he thinks. He hopes. Harry says shit like that, like they all do; it’s second nature to throw praise around to counter the sometimes cutting criticism. Harry can’t help it that it means so much more to him.

“You’re always pretty, you know that.” Harry nudges him with his hip. It’s lucky he’s drunk and not doing it at full strength, because Zayn feels ready to fall over, toppled by the words and the chill that’s gone over him and Harry. “You and your smolders. But you’re extra pretty when you smile. That’s what got me, back then.”

“Got you?”

“Got me to have a crush on you,” Harry says simply, like the words don’t take Zayn apart. Like they don’t make his head thunk back into the wall just for solid ground, just so he doesn’t sink to the wall. Like Zayn’s coughing is normal.

“A crush?” Zayn manages to get out. “On me?”

“’course.” Harry blinks, those big green eyes, so horribly fond and honest. “Back when we were teenagers, I was so into you, I mean, how was I supposed to not be? With your eyes and your cheekbones and you were so nice and cool and funny and smart and so so pretty.” He runs his fingers over Zayn’s cheeks again, and they feel like lines of ice, or maybe Zayn’s the ice.

Zayn’s mouth opens. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, or what to do, but he—Harry had a crush on him? Harry thought—Harry considered—maybe he doesn’t—

“I got over it,” Harry adds, and there it is. There’s the pit in Zayn’s stomach, the ache in his chest, the chill that runs over him. There it is. “Had to, didn’t I? And, like, found other people, and Ben. But anyway, you should smile more, I don’t like it when you don’t smile, it’s sad, you should smile all the time. You should be smiling now. Why aren’t you smiling?”

Zayn can’t find words, doesn’t know how to say anything. Doesn’t know how this works, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to—Harry liked him. Harry doesn’t anymore. Harry got over him, just like that, because that’s all he felt for Zayn, something so fleeting that he just got over it, when Zayn’s been stuck in this mire for years, unable to even begin to find his way out, to find his way out of Harry with his hair and eyes and dimples and laughter and—

“Zayn?” Harry prompts, nuzzling at his shoulder with his nose. “Are you—shit, one sec.” He pulls out his buzzing phone, then his face does something that looks like a smile and is but isn’t really one of his smiles. “Oh, Ben’s free now. I’m gonna…” he’s looking at Zayn like it means something, peering at him like he can see through him, but he’s never been able to do that. He’s never really known, because no one keeps a secret like Zayn. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Zayn takes a drag of his forgotten cigarette, but it’s too long, and he starts coughing again.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” He tries to smile, for Harry. “Go to Ben, it’s fine. I’m fine. Have fun.”

“Okay…” Harry agrees, his lips pressed together tightly. “But I’m telling Liam to check in on you if he doesn’t see you in ten minutes, okay?” When Zayn nods, he goes. Goes to Ben. Goes to Ben who he can’t get over even though he’s fucking married, when he got over Zayn like a flash.

Fuck, what’s wrong with him? Zayn stubs out the cigarette, so he can properly brace himself back against the wall, both palms spread so he can feel the grittiness, let it ground him. He’s not going home when he could. He’s not sleeping. He’s fighting with his best friends. He fucking snapped at Niall, and he doesn’t do that, no one does that, Zayn would beat up anyone who tried. Harry got over him, Harry left him to go to Ben, like he always does. Like he always will do, because he finished with Zayn.

And when did Zayn get this pathetic? He remembers a time when he was cool. When people fell in love with him, not the other way around. When he didn’t spend his life thinking about someone else. When he didn’t stay up at night wondering if someone else was okay. When he didn’t push his best friends away because he doesn’t want to hear them when they’re telling the truth.

He gets up off the wall. He must have had more to drink then he thought, because the ground’s spinning a little, but it evens out when he gets inside, except the air thick with sweat and people hits him and he coughs, grabbing at the wall until he’s steady again.

Once he is, he finds them—his boys, standing by the bar, talking intently, blonde hair and brown and brown, backs he knows as well as he knows his own, who he loves as well as he loves his family. No Harry but that’s okay, because he loves these boys too, even if Harry’s gone to Ben, if Harry got over him.

They turn when he approaches, and Niall grins, Niall who he snapped at but forgave him because he’s Niall and he’s wonderful.

“I…” they’re all looking at him, then they swim for a second. Is he crying? He doesn’t cry often, but who knows. “I’m done. Can you help me be done?”

“Zayn—” Liam starts, then they swim again, then Niall’s looking worried and that’s not okay because Niall shouldn’t be worried, Niall’s never worried, then it all goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2! Chapter 3 will be up Thursday, 1/1. Hope you enjoy!

Zayn swims back to consciousness to the feel of a hand clenched over his. He registers without even thinking the callouses on it, the length and width of the fingers—Louis. Louis’s there. Why was he asleep? The last thing he remembers is the bar…he opens his eyes.

Three faces are huddled over him, all of them in various degrees of panic, but Liam’s eyes light up when Zayn sees him, like he usually only does when they’ve been on a long break, and he fumbles at the phone pressed to his ear. “Paul!” he yells, and Zayn winces at the noise. “He’s awake.”

“Thank god, thank fucking god.” Louis hand tightens on his, and his lips are pressed together, but there are tears in the corners of his eyes. “Fuck, you are never allowed to do that again, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What happened?” Zayn’s throat still hurts, but he manages to get it out.

“You fainted.” Niall’s hand is shaking, and he still looks worried. “Do you remember?”

“I…” He does, he thinks? He remembers Harry, he remembers deciding, he remembers coming inside, he remembers telling them—“Yeah? Maybe? I—”

“Here.” Liam moves the phone to Zayn’s ear. “Paul wants to talk to you.”

“Hey.” Paul’s voice has he familiar note that he gets when one of them is in trouble. Who’s in trouble? “How you feeling, man?”

“Dunno.” He’s on the floor, he realizes, and it’s cold. He’s cold. “I’m cold?”

“Okay. We’re going to go to the hospital, get you checked out. See what’s up.”

“Nothing’s up,” Zayn tells him. “I’m better. I’m going to be better.”

“Okay then, can you stand?” Liam is sliding an arm under his shoulders even as Paul’s talking, and Niall’s at his side taking the phone back and Louis still hasn’t let go of his hand, and he makes it to his feet, even if his legs feel like jelly.

“We’re going to get you to a car,” Niall says, “Paul says to take you to the hospital from here.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m—”

“If you say fine, I will knock you out myself,” Louis hisses. “I caught you once, I can do it again.”

Zayn rubs his thumb over Louis’s hand. “But you caught me.”

“Not the point, Malik, get in the car.” Louis shoves him and Liam in, then Niall climbs in after them and shuts the door, the phone still to his ear.

Zayn leans onto Niall’s shoulder as Liam negotiates with the driver, and he’s asleep by the time they start moving.

He wakes up when they stop, half because of that and half because he starts hacking, bending nearly in half even with Louis’s hand running comfortingly down his spine.

“Okay, love,” he murmurs, soft like he only gets with his siblings usually, “We’re here. You can lean on Liam again, his muscles have to be good for something.”

Liam doesn’t even retort, which should tell Zayn something if he could think enough to figure it out, just gathers Zayn into his side. Zayn tries to walk, but it’s so much easier to just let Liam basically carry him, as Niall and Louis trot along next to them.

Zayn drifts, at the hospital, as they wait, as a doctor asks him questions he thinks he replies to, as they do tests and have him lie in a bed and he knows the boys are hovering in the waiting room.

Finally, the door opens again, and the other boys file in. Except Harry, but Harry’s with Ben. He doesn’t need Harry. Not anymore.

The doctor—a Asian woman with her dark hair pulled into a bun who doesn’t seem to know or care who he is, just examined him briskly and efficiently in a way that reminds Zayn of Doniya, the brusque but not ungentle care—gives them a look, then rolls her eyes. “You family?”

“Yeah,” Louis answers, before anyone can say anything. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s right here,” Zayn points out. He feels like shit, but he’s not helpless.

“He has no right to say anything after he refused to take care of himself,” Louis retorts, then gives the doctor the smile he gives people he’s trying to convince he’s mature and capable. “What’s the diagnosis?”

“He has a bad case of the flu, and walking pneumonia,” she tells them, just as briskly. “If it got this bad, we’ll want to keep him overnight for observation, get some fluids in him. He should be fine to go home in the morning.”

“Great!” Niall grins, and the doctor smiles back, a little, because no one can resist Niall, not at all.

Liam pulls the doctor aside, talking to her about things like private room and care and other stuff Zayn can’t hear and can’t quite process, and Louis and Niall crowd in close.

“My mum,” Zayn mutters, “She should know—”

“I’ll call her,” Louis volunteers immediately. “I—”

“Don’t let her come down,” Zayn orders. He doesn’t want her to have to do that, not when it’s the busiest time of year for the girls, not when he’ll just be resting. Not when it was his own stupidity that brought him here. “Tell her I’m fine, that you’ll be looking after me, and I’ll call her soon.”

“You better fucking bet I’ll be looking after you,” Louis snaps, but he goes, bringing the phone up to his ear.

That just leaves Niall, who puts his hand on Zayn’s chest. He’s smiling, but it’s not his usual beaming grin, something quieter, more drawn.

“Hey.” Zayn pats his hand. “I’m okay. I’m sorry for scaring you. And for snapping.”

“Fuck, Zayn.” Niall rakes his hand back through his hair. “Don’t have to fucking apologize. Just, never want to see that again, okay?”

“Yeah, not planning on it.” Zayn tries to smile, but somehow it gets caught in a coughing fit.

Once it’s done, Niall pats his chest again. “And Haz?” he asks. Anyone else would be tentative, or maybe avoid it, but not Niall. Never Niall. “Want me to call him?”

Zayn pauses. He does. He wants Harry here with him, wants the comfort he brings, wants to be able to breathe in his scent and wrap it around him, wants him to make Zayn laugh and make it all feel better. But he remembers his decision, remembers ‘I got over you’ and why he’s here in this bed in the first place. “No,” he says, at last. “Or, like, you can let him know if you want, but I can’t—I can’t see him, Niall. I won’t—I can’t.”

“Okay.” Zayn’s breath comes out a little easier at that simple acceptance. “Okay, Zayn. It’s okay.”

\---

Zayn’s not sure how they arrange it throughout the night, but it’s Liam who takes him home in the morning, getting strict instructions about how he needs to rest and get fluids. “Just have to stay in bed for weeks,” Liam teases quietly, as he helps Zayn into the car. “Sounds like your dreams.”

Zayn flips him off. He really wishes he didn’t need to lean so strongly on Liam just to get up into the high SUV. He stares out the window as they drive, until something occurs to him.

“Did—like, how bad is it?” he asks. Liam turns to look at him quizzically. “Me collapsing in a bar,” Zayn explains. “Am I spreading some sort of agenda? Ebola, probably?”

Liam doesn’t laugh. “There were pictures,” he admits. “Management leaked you having pneumonia, though, and that seems to have helped. You could tweet something, maybe people’ll leave you alone then. You don’t have any promo, obviously; we’ll cover it until you’re better.”

Zayn nods. Maybe he’ll tweet when he’s home, when he can get warm again. He crosses his arms over his chest to try to conserve heat. Liam huffs out a breath, then grabs Zayn and drags him closer, pulls him into his chest so he can feel the warmth from him. Zayn doesn’t think he’s been this warm in weeks.

\---

Zayn shoves off Liam’s offer to help him out of the car when they get to Zayn’s. He’s sick, he’s not dying; he can walk up the steps. He can unlock the door, even if Liam’s hovering behind him, and then kneel as Hatchi butts at his leg, runs his hands over Benji’s back, gathers up Prada into his arms and buries his head in her fur.

“Okay, bed,” Liam orders, and Zayn lets him move him into his bed, lets him tuck him in like Zayn’s five. Liam feels better if he’s actively taking care of people. “And…” he trails off, but his eyes dart to Zayn’s phone.

“I can sleep through alerts.” Zayn rolls his eyes. He can sleep through anything, Liam knows that. “Don’t really care what people are saying about me on twitter, babe.”

“Not those alerts I’m worried about.”

Zayn sighs. “I’m not that sad. It’ll be fine. And my mum will probably call.”

“Okay.” Liam pauses in the doorway. “I’ll be around, or one of the other lads will be. Just yell if you need anything.”

“I will, mum.”

“For real.” Liam fixes that stern, earnest gaze on him. “Anything. We’re here to help.”

“I know.” Zayn sighs, and pulls Benji closer to him. Hatchi’s snuck under Liam’s leg, and jumps onto the bed too, flopping over his feet. “Thanks.”

Liam’s brow furrows. “We’d have done it earlier, if you’d told us you were this sick.”

“I didn’t…” He didn’t know it was this bad? He didn’t know they would? He didn’t want them to worry? He didn’t need them to worry? He doesn’t know.

But Liam shakes his head. “Get some sleep, Zayn,” he tells him, and shuts the door, leaving it open a crack so the cats can sneak in and out. Zayn’s asleep before Liam’s footsteps recede down the hall.

\---

Zayn wakes again to the sound of people talking in the hall outside. Or, more accurately, he wakes to the sound of Harry talking, because he can’t not react to Harry in distress, not even now.

“What the hell?” Harry’s saying, nearly yelling. He sounds like he’s close to tears. “Why can’t I go in?”

“He’s asleep,” Liam’s saying. Zayn glances at his phone. There are five texts and three calls from Harry, but it’s barely noon. If Harry stayed over with Ben, he might have just left now. “So keep it down, okay?”

“I will keep it down if you stop telling me to go away!” Harry retorts. “I want to see he’s okay.”

“He’s fine, the doctor said—”

“And why wasn’t I there?” Zayn doesn’t have to see him to know Harry’s expression, the cross-armed glare. “Why did I have to learn my best friend was in the hospital on fucking twitter?”

“We didn’t want to disturb you with your sugar daddy,” Louis throws in, knife sharp, and Harry’s gasp carries all the way down to Zayn.

“First off, I am worth much more than him,” Harry’s voice is the quiet, steady thing he only gets when he’s really mad. “And second, you don’t think I’d care Zayn was in the fucking hospital?”

“If you’re going to argue, can you do it outside?” Niall inserts. “You’ll wake him up.”

“Not like Harry doesn’t do that anyway,” Louis spits. Zayn curls into his pillows. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to hear this, to hear Harry’s pain. To hear him want Zayn. Because he does, that’s never been the problem. Zayn’s never questioned that Harry loves him. Just…not like Zayn does.

“What does that mean?”

“Means you two need to leave,” Niall cuts off the argument, “Now.”

Zayn pulls a pillow over his face so he doesn’t have to hear any more, but that cuts off his breath enough he starts coughing again. A minute later, there’s a knock on the door and Niall comes in, holding a glass of water.

“Here.” He offers it to Zayn, who sits up to take it. “You heard that?”

“Yeah.” Zayn takes a gulp of the water. It soothes his throat a little. “I don’t want you to start anything, yeah? If he’s getting mad, maybe you should just let him in. I’ll be fine.”

“You said that right before you collapsed, too,” Niall retorts. “We’re cool. We know how to handle Harry. Go back to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, and Niall leaves, setting the glass down on the counter next to him.

When he’s gone, Zayn picks up his phone again. The texts from Harry start with _Oh my god zayn are you okay call me please?_ And go to _I’m coming over right now, I’ve got my famous chicken soup!_ Zayn scrolls through them quickly, then opens his web browser.

The pictures of him are pretty bad. There are some of him on the ground, some of Liam helping him into a car. There’s one of him sagged in Louis’s arms, his head lolling back, and Louis’s looking at him with the most panicked expression Zayn’s ever seen on it. It makes Zayn wince. He didn’t know it was that bad.

He logs on to twitter, because Liam’s right, he needs to say something before everyone starts assuming he’s dead (too late, it looks like), and tweets a quick ‘Feeling alright thanks everyone for the good wishes!’, then shuts off his phone. He takes another sip of water, then settles back into his pillows, and falls asleep again.

\---

Zayn wakes up to Harry’s ring tone twice. He listens to both of them ring out, his legs curled up tight into his body.

\---

“He’s got to be awake now.”

“I don’t know if he is, Harry, I can check.” Liam sticks his head into Zayn’s room. Zayn’s only vaguely awake, but he wants to say that yes, he’s awake, he wants Harry, so badly that he shakes his head. He can do this. “Looks like he isn’t. I’ll text you when he’s up next.”

“I can wait too! I don’t know why you aren’t giving me a shift.”

“Because…” Liam trails off, and Zayn knows he’s trying to find a way to say ‘I don’t trust Zayn to be alone with you’. “You’re busy, yeah? It’s fine, Haz. We got this.”

“I do too! I’m in this band too, and I care about him too!” Harry sounds so frustrated, so on edge, Zayn just wants to give him a hug. To wrap him in his arms and tell him everything will be okay, everything will work out, he’s fine. But Zayn’s also shivering under his blankets, and Harry can go find Ben, have Ben tell him that. Zayn digs out his headphones and sticks them in, letting the music drown out whatever Harry has to say.

\---

That night, Niall brings him chicken soup, clearly homemade. Zayn lets it soothe his throat, and tries not to think about where it might have come from, because he knows perfectly well none of them can cook, but in the end, he has to ask. “Did Harry make this?”

“Yeah. Good, isn’t it?” Niall shifts back and forth on the bed.

“Yeah.” Zayn swallows another spoonful, and doesn’t think about how Harry made this for him, how even if Harry’s not allowed here he’s trying to help take care of Zayn. Of course he is. He loves Zayn. Zayn knows that. Just not at all how Zayn wants. “Did he say anything else?”

Niall gives him one of his even looks that are all the worse because he doesn’t bother using them usually, tends more for laughter. “Do you want to know?”

Zayn does. He really does. He really really does, wants to know if Harry asked about him or if they let him see him as he slept, wants to know if Harry was looking okay and if he and Ben are getting back on even footing or if Harry’s sleeping in someone else’s bed now he can’t go to Zayn’s.

But he shakes his head instead. “Probably shouldn’t,” he mutters, and Niall scoots closer and lets Zayn lean on him as he eats.

\---

_Zyann are ouy awke?_

_Fuck no dnt liten to me go to slepr get bttre_

_Miss youuuuu_

\---

Zayn’s actually awake the next time Harry comes, sitting up in his bed reading. He’s finally slept off his deficit, he thinks, so now he just generally feels like crap and is coughing every other breath and his muscles all feel like someone replaced them with jelly and he’s been on a steady dose of Advil to keep his headache away, but at least he can keep his eyes open. He even went online earlier, checked twitter, which was more well-wishing than anything else, which felt nice. He closed it when he started to get to the parts that were speculating on how he caught pneumonia, or whether this is a cover-up for him going to rehab, or whatever.

“No, Louis!” Harry snaps, suddenly loud. Zayn had heard the door open, but they had been talking too quietly for him to know who had come in. His fingers clench over his book. “I’m not stupid, I know you guys are keeping me away from him. Can you just tell me why? Did I do something? Is this some sort of conspiracy? Is he—”

“Did you do anything?” Louis retorts. “You were the one who dragged him out at all hours in the rain—”

“I asked him to come! I didn’t drag him! If I’d known he was this sick—”

“Because he’s ever going to say no to you,” Louis snorts.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Liam cuts in. He sounds tired. This has been as bad on them as it was on Zayn, Zayn knows; not only taking care of him but also drawing this line in the band, having to keep this from Harry. “But Harry, if you love Zayn at all, you cannot go in there.”

“If I love him?” Harry’s voice is rising, all his stage-trained volume coming to bear. “If? Liam, you know I love him, are you questioning—”

Zayn can’t listen to this anymore. Can’t do this anymore, can’t let his own stupid inability to keep control of his emotions pull the band apart. It’s his problem, he needs to deal with this. Harry has to know whom to blame.

So he drags himself out of bed. He’s in sweatpants and a sweatshirt that he thinks was Liam’s originally, but that Niall definitely wore a lot at one point, and he’s still chilled, even though when he glances in the mirror his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are brighter than they should be. He looks like crap.

But he can still hear the arguing, so he just pushes his messy, loose hair out of his eyes, and heads downstairs. He’s not an invalid, he can walk, even if he’s not entirely steady, but he doesn’t actually need to be waited on hand and food like the boys are insisting.

The argument’s in the living room, Zayn thinks from the direction of the voices, of Liam’s steady tone and Louis’s sharp bite and the rising confusion and anger of Harry.

Sure enough, they’re there, the three of them, arranged in a triangle in the middle of the room, Louis and Liam’s backs to the wall that would let Harry farther in the house. Harry’s got a plate under his arm and a satchel over his shoulder, and he looks good, fuck. Just looking at him makes Zayn feel better, at those loose curls and the way his shirts stretch over his chest and his pants tight around his hips. He’s got dark circles under his eyes though, probably matching the ones under Zayn’s, and it makes Zayn’s chest twinge.

“Harry, I’m serious, we can’t—”

“It’s Zayn! Why are you all acting like I wouldn’t care?”

“Because maybe it seems sometimes like you wouldn’t?”

“Louis, how can you say that?”

“Well, you’ve been too busy fucking around with Ben to even bother noticing he was sick—”

“What’s Ben got to do with this? And I did notice, I noticed more than any of you, but he said he was fine, he told me he was okay—”

“And you listened?” Zayn can hear Louis roll his eyes. “It’s Zayn, of course he’s going to say that. Of course he’s going to tell _you_ that.”

“What—”

“Hey,” Zayn says, before this gets any worse.

They don’t seem to hear him. “What was I supposed to do, tie him to the bed?” Harry retorts, his cheeks red.

“He’d have let you, at least!”

“Louis, stop—”

“Hey,” Zayn interrupts, trying for louder, but instead he breaks into coughing, bracing himself on the wall. At least it gets everyone’s attention, because when he looks up all three of them are looking at him, and Louis’s there next to him in an instant, hovering like he’d like to hold Zayn up if he could figure out how.

But Zayn can stand on his own, or with some help from the wall. “Hey,” he repeats. This time he gets it out.

“Zayn!” Harry’s face lights up, and it knocks into Zayn, the force of that beaming grin, like he’s never seen anything so amazing as Zayn in that moment. “Zayn, thank god, I was so worried, they wouldn’t let me come see you but I’ll take care of you, I promise, I—”

“Hi, Harry.” Zayn runs a hand through his hair, to distract from how ready Harry looks to take care of him. Like he would drop everything and stay with Zayn for however long it would take. Next to him, Louis shifts, edging closer to Zayn, like a reminder. A warning that his smile’s probably gone close to besotted, that he’s falling again, falling into Harry’s orbit.

He takes a deep breath in, winces at the sudden pain. All three of them start forward, toward him; he flinches back, shakes his head. “’s fine.”

“That’s what you said before,” Louis snaps. He slides under Zayn’s shoulder, between Zayn and the wall, so Zayn has to lean on him. “Why the fuck are you out of bed anyway?”

“I had to.” Zayn forgoes the deep breath this time, just looks at Harry, whose eyes are wide, almost scared. His fingers are running up and down the strap of his satchel, the repetitive motion he does when he’s nervous or unsure. Zayn could just let it go. Could let Harry come in and feed him whatever he made and probably curl up with him and tell him all his woes, all the problems Zayn knows he and Ben have been having by the tilt of Harry’s head and the way his shirt is mostly buttoned.

Louis’s fingers dig into his hips, and Liam is shaking his head slowly, like he knows what Zayn is thinking, and Zayn remembers the panicked look Louis had in that picture, remembers the tearful phone call he’d had with his mum when he had to beg her not to come.

“Harry, thanks for coming, it means a lot you want to,” he starts. Harry grins again, raises his arms like he’s going for a hug; Zayn pulls back into the doorway, away from him, and Harry’s brow furrows, his head tilting in confusion. “But, like, can you not? I can’t—they’re just doing what I said, yeah? Don’t be mad at them.” Zayn gestures to Louis and Liam, as Harry’s eyes are widening, the hurt apparent in his fading grin. Louis’s holding onto him like he knows how close he is to falling over. “But please don’t come back. I can’t—like, I can’t have you here.”

“What? Zayn!” Harry puts the plate down on the table, then steps forward for real. “Why not? I just want to help! I want—”

“I know, babe.” Zayn manages a smile. “I know, and I love you for it, I do, I promise.” Oh god. Does he. “But I, like, can you leave me alone? Please?” He thinks he might be ready to faint again, thinks that maybe if Louis wasn’t there he would. Thinks he might anyway, with Harry’s lip quivering and the shock and confusion and hurt in his face. He’s hurting Harry and that’s the last thing he’s ever wanted he should just—

“You heard him, Haz.” Liam’s hand is around Harry’s shoulders, and he’s turning him slowly. “Come on, let’s go.”

“But—”

“Back to bed,” Louis murmurs to Zayn, and Zayn nods numbly. He never wanted to put that look on Harry’s face. He wanted to be the one person who never did, who never hurt Harry like that, but now— “You did what you had to, come on.”

Zayn lets Louis lead him away, turns him away from where Liam’s talking quietly to Harry, away from Harry’s hunched back and the way his shoulders are slumping like he’s trying to make himself smaller, like Zayn punched him in the gut.

Louis gets him back into bed, pulls the covers up to his chin like he’s one of his sisters, then sits on the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?” he asks. He’s being soft again, which means Zayn must look really bad.

Zayn curls his knees into his chest. He’s cold and his head hurts and his heart is aching worse than anything, because he hurt Harry. “No,” he mutters. A second later, there’s a hand running over his hair, a gentle, easy rhythm. “Hurts, Lou.”

“I know, love. I know.” He doesn’t, though. He’s got El and everything’s lovely between them, even with all the fan drama. That’s what Zayn wants. That’s all Zayn wants, for it to be easy like that, like Zayn’s parents. Not this horrible thing.

He tips his head back so he can look at Louis. “He had a crush on me, you know? Ages ago.”

Louis’s hand pauses, and his face twitches, but then he starts petting again. “Yeah, I know.”

“You do?” Zayn tries to glare, but he doesn’t have the energy. “You never said! How’d you know?”

“Didn’t think it would help anything. And, like, he wasn’t exactly subtle. Always going on about your cheekbones and hanging off of everything you said.” Louis almost smiles, teasing. “Even less subtle than you.”

“Well, he got over me.” Prada chooses that moment to jump onto the bed, plopping onto Zayn’s chest. She’s warm, and it’s almost as nice as Louis’s hand, that other sort of uncomplicated love. “He just, like, got over me, Lou. Why can’t I?”

“Because you’re an idiot who decides to get pneumonia before you do something about it.”

“Louis.”

“I stick by it,” Louis says staunchly, but he stays there for a long time, petting Zayn’s hair.

\---

_I’m not going to text you again I just wanted to tell you I’ll stay away if you want. Whatever you need. If you need anything else tell me._

_No really I’m done but can you just tell me what I did?_

_I’m sorry for it. Whatever I did to you. I never meant to. Get better, Zayn._

_\---_

_zaynsadsa m so durnk nd I want to tlk to yo why wont you let me?_

_Just need you I cant without you_

_Ben told me to go home because m drunk I want to be with you._

_Its not the same here smthings missing I think its u._

_\---_

_I’m sorry about those I’ll stop I promise._

_\---_

“Is he all right?” Zayn asks, when Niall comes in next. Niall’s been taking sides the least in this—or he might even be more on Harry’s side, if there were sides. Zayn’s glad, really. He hopes Louis hasn’t been too angry at Harry; it’s not like he did anything.

Niall hands him a Gatorade, and another bowl of the soup Harry had brought. It’s been lasting long enough Zayn’s not sure if it’s some sort of never-ending bowl or if Harry’s sending more over. “Haz? Yeah. Don’t know how you dealt with him, though. I don’t need to hear about all his and Ben’s problems.”

“They’re having problems?” Zayn’s been distracting himself, deleting Harry’s texts as soon as he’s read them, so he doesn’t reread them over and over again and overthink everything. He hasn’t told anyone Harry’s still texting him, either, but he thinks not responding every time, not telling Harry to come over here immediately, is progress.

“Yeah, something about how Harry’s being needy, or something? He was pretty drunk, didn’t make much sense.” Niall grabs the empty water glass off of Zayn’s table, gives Hatchi a scratch on the head. “Need anything else?”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Niall pauses, still scratching Hatchi’s head. He looks serious, which is never good. “He is, though. Like, me and Li, we’re still seeing him, and he’s got all his other friends. Even Louis. You don’t have to worry about him.”

Zayn snorts. “I always worry, Ni. ‘Bout all of you.”

Niall pokes softly at Zayn’s chest, a faint echo of their onstage ritual. “Well worry about yourself every once in a while, yeah? I’m quite done with hospitals for a while.”

\---

_“Zaynnnnn I hope you’re asleep getting better and not being sick and not being mad at me anymore I just hope you pick up I miss your voice hearing it on your voicemail’s half the reason I’m calling, I feel better just hearing it. But you need to sleep because I know it’s my fault and I’m sorry if you were feeling ill you should have left me there I just needed you and I need you now and Zaynnn no one else listens to me like you do Ben doesn’t listen anymore if he ever did he thinks I’m too silly and I’m not, it’s not silly to want something real is it? It’s not, I just want something more and I don’t know if Ben’s it. He’s always thinking about cameras, and I just—_ BEEEP”

\---

By the time a week is up, bedrest is getting boring even for Zayn. There’s only so long he can spend in one place before he’s ready to burn his bed, and if he’s thinking that then he knows something is wrong.

Luckily, it’s Liam’s shift today, and Liam’s always been susceptible to Zayn’s logic and pleas, so Zayn finally makes the move to the living room. Liam insists on carrying the comforter from Zayn’s room in too, and some pillows, so by the time he’s done and Zayn’s on the couch it’s basically Zayn’s bedroom all over again, Zayn nested in his blankets and his cats, with Hatchi on his feet.

They queue up all three Batman films, and Liam sits back down next to Zayn, so Zayn can edge over and lean on his shoulder. It feels like such a blast from the past, the sort of thing they’d do four years ago when the other boys were running around outside and they needed to hide. When Liam was still too serious and too focused sometimes, still unsure of how to deal with the pressure and the expectations; when Zayn had tried to hide from the cameras behind Liam and had let Liam’s quiet encouragement buoy him up. When they had been each other’s anchor. They still are, even if it’s changed, even if they’re not those boys anymore, even if they aren’t so close anymore, but it’s still Liam who too often picks up the slack when Zayn doesn’t know what to say in interviews; it’s still Liam who knows when it’s all getting too much for Zayn and finds a place for him to retreat to.

So, as an older Bruce explores the caves for a second time, Zayn mutters, “Do you think I’ve been horribly stupid?”

Liam doesn’t bother pausing the movie, but he’s clearly thinking about it. “Nah, not horribly. Least you didn’t, like, confess your love on twitter or something.”

Zayn snorts. “Coulda played that off as a joke, though.”

“But can you imagine the shippers? Zarry would’ve been as big as Larry.”

“Couldn’t happen.” Zayn chuckles, coughs, but he frowns at the screen. “But, like, seriously.”

“Seriously? No.” Liam draws him in, playful and warm. “Not with Harry. That was just you being in love. But you can’t just forget about you, babe.” Zayn thinks he feels Liam’s lips on his head. “That’s where you were stupid. You’re important too.”

“I know that.”

“And we’re here for you,” Liam goes on, turning stern. “Lots of people are. Being vulnerable isn’t the worst thing in the world.” The words come just as Bruce starts to talk about how he can become what he fears, and Zayn starts to giggle. Liam laughs too, and they watch a superhero rise and fall together, same as always, Liam steady and solid next to him.

\---

_I dont kno wht I diddd but cn yui frgivve me I_

_Zayn rae oyu alive niall says yuu are but I vetn seen you and I don’t know what id do if u wreent okay god zayn please be okay_

_Ben’s bed isn’tas nice as yours. Rather tbe there._

_\---_

Zayn finds things to do in bed. He marathons all of Agents of SHIELD, Arrow, and the Flash, he catches up on Doctor Who. He and Louis watch all the Marvel movies, even if Louis refuses to smoke up with him. He watches Niall watch football, which amuses them both because it’s the one thing Zayn’s ever seen Niall really get mad about. He reads a lot, catches up on all the books he always pretends he’s going to read during tour. He talks to his sisters, to Ant and Danny. He tries not to check his phone for texts from Harry, even if most mornings there are a few, of varying degrees of drunk spelling. It’s like a patch, he figures. Something to tide him over, because he’s been so good, barely even thinking about Harry. He’s been doing his own thing—and fine, asking Niall occasionally for updates, but mainly his own thing.

It’s nice, to sleep through the night again. To not wait for the text from Harry to wake him up. It’s not nice that there’s no Harry here, no Harry to cuddle with and breathe in his scent and feel everything clicking into place.

\---

_onone is as gdoo a cdller as you, know that? I feel safgest awith you. Means I should probabl stop doing this. With ben. If im spending all my time worrying about you._

_Idsed to be so into yo. I never told you becaise k thought youd laufh and stop being yup but ure my rock, not the other way roung._

_Ithink im gonna break up with ben but iduno its just nt right zayn wahts hould I do you always know the right ting. I dent knw if I love bhijm or nt he sasy he and meri want a kid si ccnet do this if they have a kid I want kids._

_Zayn fuck I miss you._

_\---_

Zayn stares at the texts from last night. He doesn’t know what to do. He should leave them be. He should finish his Harry detox, get him totally out of his system, but going by his texts Harry’s been drunk every night this week, and—and he misses Zayn. And it seems like he’s been needing Zayn too, and Zayn not being there is hurting him, and Zayn’s not made to hurt people, especially people he loves.

“What’s up?” Louis settles onto the bed next to him, grabs the phone out of Zayn’s hand. Zayn scrambles to get it, but he’s still weak, and Louis’s over the blankets so he has more mobility, and Zayn can’t get to him before he looks at the texts.

“Zayn,” Louis sighs, like he’s chiding one of the twins, and fuck it all Zayn is not a child.

“I know,” he snaps back. “I haven’t been replying.”

“Well he needs to stop. He doesn’t need his drama to make your recovery worse.” Louis holds the phone away, starts to type. Zayn finally manages to get a hold of Louis’s shirt and yanks, pulling him back so he falls over into Zayn and Zayn can grab the phone back. Louis stays on top of Zayn, his chin resting on Zayn’s chest. It doesn’t hurt as much as it had a week ago. “You need to tell him to stop.”

“I’m not blocking his number,” Zayn retorts. “We’re still friends. Or I hope we are, if he can forgive me for this.”

“He’ll get over it. He’s too busy fucking around behind Meredith’s back anyway.” Zayn winces, and Louis bites his lip. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Whatever.” Zayn holds the phone tight, remembers all the things Harry’s been saying, about need and Zayn. Remembers he can’t dwell on that anymore. “It’s not like you're wrong.”

“It is, though.” Louis rolls over, so he’s lying next to Zayn, their fingers brushing. “Like, I haven’t seen him because I’m fucking pissed at him, but he’s…he wanted to help. Wanted to take care of you.”

“I know. He’s said so.” Zayn squeezes the phone again, then puts it on the bedside table so he can rest his hand on Louis’s. This isn’t what he needs to talk about. “Why’re you so pissed, anyway?”

“Not allowed to be pissed my best friend’s falling apart?” Louis says it with the testy note he always gets when he’s trying to pretend he’s not the most sentimental person in the band. But there’s no one Zayn knows better than Louis, so Zayn wraps his fingers around his wrist, holds on tight, and he can feel Louis let out a long breath.

“I—for a second, I thought you were dead, okay?” Louis’s shaking, so Zayn closes the space between them, so their whole sides are touching, so Louis can feel his too-warm skin. “Like, I saw you fall and somehow I caught you and I couldn’t tell if you were breathing and—I thought you had managed to fucking get yourself killed over this.”

“I’m not that stupid, Lou.” Zayn tries to make it sound like he’s joking, when really his breath is catching in his throat, and he feels like he might cry. He didn’t think about that. He knew Louis was panicked, but he hadn’t even asked what it could be like.

“You are, though. You wouldn’t even admit anything was wrong.” Louis shakes his head. “And, like, I figured out pretty quickly you weren’t dead, but, fuck. That second.” He intertwines their fingers. “Don’t fucking do that to me ever again. Ever. Okay? I call dibs on dying first.”

Zayn laughs, a little wetly. “Nah, we’ll go out together, yeah? Blaze of glory.”

“Hell yeah.” Louis’s breaths are loud in the quiet of the room, as they both absorb it.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says finally, into that quiet. “I, like, I should have known I was sick.”

“Don’t fucking apologize,” Louis mutters. “Not your fault.”

“It is, though. Like, I shouldn’t have been stupid about Harry, and I shouldn’t have let it get this bad, and—”

“Shut up.” Louis sits up, all at once, so he can properly glare down at Zayn. Zayn props himself up on his elbows in response, to get a little more height. “That—that right there, that’s why I’m so fucking pissed at Harry. Because you were always going to fucking do this and he should have known.”

“Do what?” Zayn demands.

“Everything! It’s not just Harry. It’s what you always do, try to take care of everything by yourself. You can’t fucking do that.” Louis stabs him in the chest with his finger, hard enough to hurt. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself. But you were going to, and he knows that. He knows you’ll always do anything to take care of any of us, and forget about yourself, and he kept asking anyway. And that’s not how you treat people. That’s taking advantage.”

“He didn’t know.”

“He knew.” Louis’s voice cracks out, a whip snap that hits over Zayn’s heart. “Maybe he doesn’t really know you’re in love with him, but he knows you’d do anything for him, and he knew you were sick, and I don’t give a fuck if he was drunk or needy or his fucking affair wasn’t good enough for him anymore, he doesn’t get to do that. Not with all the shit he used to say about how he felt for you.”

Zayn takes a second to parse that, to take it in, because it’s how he needs to deal with Louis, to find the important parts of his rants and pluck it out, find the heart of him. So he doesn’t ask about whatever Harry used to say about how he felt about Zayn. He doesn’t ask about the anger set deep into talking about the affair. Instead, “Doing anything for you guys isn’t a bad thing. It’s, like, loyalty.”

“Yeah, but—I’d do anything for you, you know that, but I wouldn’t jump off a cliff if you dropped your cigarette down it.” Louis lets out a long breath. “And I actually fucking tell people when I’m sick.”

“That’s because you like the attention.”

Louis grins. “Well, yeah.” Then he sobers again, and hits at Zayn’s stomach. “But taking care goes both ways. Gotta let us help you.” He drops down to the bed again, rolls over onto his side so he can still look at Zayn. “You’re supposed to be the one I don’t worry about.”

“I don’t want you to worry.”

“Well I’m going to.” Louis curls up next to Zayn again. “Just like you worry about us.” He pauses, but Louis’s never known how to be tactful, so he goes on, “And this martyr complex you’ve got going on? It’s not how love works. I’d do anything for El. But I take care of myself, and she wouldn’t expect anything else. Otherwise you can’t last.” He turns his face, so his nose is in Zayn’s shoulder, and again he doesn’t have to look at Zayn when he adds, “So no fucking sacrificing yourself, okay? Blaze of glory.”

“Blaze of glory,” Zayn agrees, and holds up his fist for Louis to pound, his fingers brushing over the BUS 1 on his hand.

\---

_“Fuck Zayn I think I have to I don’t know anymore I can’t I should just do it, right? If it’s not what I want and it’s not going to be I should say that? That’s what you’ve been telling me, and you’re probably right, you’re so good at that shit, but it’s haaard and what if you wouldn’t actually tell me that? What if you’d say I should see if I can fix it, if I can make it be enough? I love him and he loves me and isn’t that enough? Even if he loves Meredith more? Shouldn’t that be enough? Don’t call me back I shouldn’t have called you I hope I didn’t wake you up fuck I know you’re getting better and maybe you’ll forgive me soon but Zayn I’m scared and you’re the one who makes me brave.”_

Harry’s nearly crying. Zayn can hear it, when he listens, curled up in his bed after Louis leaves. He listens to it three times, because he coughs through both of them. But he sounds so sad, and it aches in Zayn too. Harry’s wrong. He doesn’t make Harry brave, Harry makes him brave, makes him breathe easier. He can’t—Harry’s _hurting_. And Zayn’s getting better, has been so good.

_If you need to come, you can_ , he texts. If Harry needs him—if he’s hurting—he can give him this. He can have this, if Harry needs it.

\---

Zayn doesn’t really register it as waking up. He might be dreaming, even; he’s had these dreams before, of Harry with him in bed, of them going to sleep together and waking up together and being together. So he just murmurs something that not even he understands and nestles backwards into Harry’s arms, pulls Harry’s hand over his chest and falls back to sleep with Harry clutching at him like he’s a life jacket in a stormy sea.

He wakes up coughing, as he does an annoying amount, his whole body curving inwards as he hacks. He doesn’t even think about the hand stroking his chest, the lips pressing into the back of his neck, the low voice rumbling out encouragement and endearments he can’t hear over his own lungs rebelling.

It’s only when he can breathe again, when his chest doesn’t feel like he’s collapsing in on himself, that he recognizes who’s in bed with him. It’s not by scent, or voice, or even the feel of his arms. Zayn just knows. He always knows, when it’s Harry.

“Need something?” Harry murmurs, his breath hot on Zayn’s ear. Or maybe Zayn’s hot, or maybe that’s the fever. Maybe he’s so far gone he’s hallucinating, even if he thought he was getting better. “Water? Tea? Painkiller? I could—”

“Harry?” is all Zayn can say. He almost doesn’t want to roll over, doesn’t want to make this real—so he has to. Harry lets him, loosens his hold so Zayn can face him.

God, Zayn’s missed his face. The broad cheeks, the strong chin, the full lips, the big eyes. Even missed the sheepish smile Harry gives him, the way his eyes go big and anxious, the way he starts to babble.

“’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t be, I promise, I tried not to wake you up and if you need anything I’ll help, I swear, I just you said I could come if I needed you and—I need to be here, Zayn.”

Zayn blinks. He’s not awake enough for this. Not awake enough to resist Harry looking so sad. He’d said he could come. What had he been thinking? What was he supposed to do now? “Are you drunk?”

“No.” Harry tugs at his hair, then wriggles closer, like he needs to be near Zayn. “I—I broke up with Ben.”

It hits Zayn like a hammer in the gut, like a steamroller. Like he really can’t breathe. “What?”

“I broke up with him,” Harry repeats, quieter, and Zayn has to open his arms, has to let Harry bury his head in Zayn’s shoulder. He can feel Harry shaking, though he doesn’t think he’s actually crying, he’s just got too much in him. Zayn can sympathize. But Zayn can’t, doesn’t let himself, just runs his hands down Harry’s back slowly, lets him work himself out, in the silent room. Harry still smells of cinnamon, and his hair is as soft as Zayn remembered it, as he dreamed it, and Zayn tries, he really does, he tries not to think that, but he can’t.

Finally, Harry pulls away, looks up at Zayn with big, bloodshot eyes. “It’s for the best,” he says. His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it in a while. Like he sung too hard last night, coming down from a concert high, and Zayn just wants to feed him tea and forget that his voice probably sounds even more fucked right now. “I know that. I did the breaking up.” The words are coming faster than usual, like Harry needed to let them out. “He just—it was good, but I can’t—it wasn’t enough. I need more than that, you know? More than just some of someone. And, I want that. Even though I love him. Or I did. Is that right?”

He blinks, and he looks so young, all of his twenty-odd years disappearing with the shadows on his face.

Zayn just hums. Something’s settling in him, with Harry here in his bed. “Can’t tell you that, babe. But if it wasn’t making you happy, you were right to stop.”

Harry sniffles, but his lips curl up. “Missed that.”

“What?”

“No one else calls me that. ‘babe’.” He draws out the vowels, like they’re a really good drink. “Not like you do.”

Oh, this boy. Zayn bites his lip. “Yeah.” It’s all he can think to say. It kind of encompasses everything. “I call other people that, though,” he points out, before he falls too deep back into that hole. He had been better. He had been. This—he can do this.

“Shut up. I like to pretend it’s just for me.” Zayn’s breath goes out of him enough that he starts hacking again, big ugly coughs he catches in his hand. It’s almost good, it distracts enough that when he manages to straighten again Harry’s totally forgotten what he said. “Shit, was that me? Did I do something?”

“No.” No, Zayn did something. Zayn went and stupidly fell in love, and he’s still not done detoxing yet. “But you shouldn’t be here, you’ll get sick.”

“I didn’t know—I couldn’t go anywhere else.” Harry glances away, his face pinched like it used to get when he was afraid he was doing something wrong, before he learned to fuck all of that. “I’m sorry. You said, but—I know you don’t want me here. It’s my fault, I snuck in, no one knows, don’t blame—”

“Niall let you in.” It’s not even a question. Zayn knows his boys, and he knows Niall wouldn’t be able to stand against Harry’s puppy dog face, knows that Niall wouldn’t doubt Harry saying Zayn had let him in..

“Yeah,” Harry admits. “But, like, don’t blame him, I was—I just needed to be here. I needed you.”

Zayn closes his eyes. There it is. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say no to that, no matter how much distance he gets, no matter what Liam says about taking care of himself, what Louis says about martyrdom. He’ll never be able to say no when someone he loves needs him. And especially not to Harry.

“Are you mad?” Harry asks, anxiously, and Zayn shakes his head without opening his eyes.

“Nah. I said you could.” He gathers a deep breath slowly, so he doesn’t cough. This hurts. This hurts worse than not having Harry here at all. But he can feel old patterns settling back in, can feel himself thinking about how to make Harry better, and so he has to do it. Before it breaks him again. “But you can’t—I’m gonna need you to go away again, if you’re all right.”

He opens his eyes to watch Harry’s reaction. Harry’s nodding slowly, looking very serious. “Can I stay here a bit longer?” he asks, almost deferential. “Not—just ‘til morning, or something. I don’t want to be home alone.”

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs, then rubs at his chest when it hurts. Harry’s smile is almost bright, and there’s a hint of dimples, and Zayn just wants to kiss. So, “But you could stay with one of the other lads. Niall’s kipping in the spare room, yeah?”

Harry shrugs. “You never judged when I was with Ben. They’d, they’d, it’d be like I knew they were happy about it, you know? You’re the only one who’s properly sympathetic.”

And isn’t that ironic. And all the more ironic because Zayn’s pretty sure it’s true, because he hurts when Harry hurts, and he never expected anything from Harry, so him being single doesn’t change anything. He fell for Harry when he was still single, after all.

So he just nods, and lets Harry pull him close again, turning him around so Harry’s holding onto him like he’s a teddy bear and he can feel Harry’s breath on his neck. Zayn doesn’t know how long they just lie there and breathe, with Zayn timing his breathing to Harry’s so he doesn’t start coughing again and break the moment. So he doesn’t fall asleep and wake up and have to make Harry go.

It only works for so long, though, before Zayn’s coughing again. It seems to go on and on this time, until he can’t breathe and there are tears in his eyes and his abs are hurting from it, and all he can do is focus on Harry’s voice in his ear murmuring things he can’t hear but he can anchor himself in the well-known tones.

When he’s finally caught his breath a bit, there’s a big, cool hand smoothing his hair out of his eyes. “Want water?” Harry asks, softly, and Zayn nods. The glass appears in his hand, and Harry lifts him up a little so he can get the right leverage to drink. Harry takes the glass back, sets it on the bedside table, then he pulls Zayn back down so he’s propped up on Harry’s chest. It’s easier to breathe, this way.

“Need anything else?” Harry’s hands are in his hair, scratching over his scalp, and his headache isn’t gone but it’s receded. Zayn knows it’s the painkillers he took before going to sleep, that love isn’t actually healing him—but it feels that way. God. He is such a cliché.

“’m good.”

“You sure? I can get you some chicken soup, if you want, there’s more. Or tea, that might be good?”

“I’m fine, Harry,” Zayn repeats. He feels, more than sees, Harry shake his head.

“That’s what you said before, and then you collapsed. What do you need?”

“To not be sick?”

“Zayn.” It’s not his serious voice, it’s his almost laughing voice, so Zayn takes a bit of satisfaction in that. “Can’t do that.”

“Then what use are you? Can’t even get me what I want.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently. Harry breath hisses out of him. He lifts up Zayn’s head so he can wriggle down, so when Zayn rolls onto his side they’re facing each other again. “I could,” Harry says, very seriously. “I wanted to. I want to. I want to help, really I do.”

“I know.” Now it’s Zayn’s turn to bite his lip. “I do, Haz. I know you’d’ve been here.”

“Then…” Harry trails off, but his jaw firms up like he’s decided something. “Can you just tell me what I did wrong? Why you’re so mad?”

“I’m not mad.” Anything but.

“Then why, Zayn?” Harry’s eyes are massive and plaintive, a lock of his hair is falling across his face, and his full lips are parted slightly. “What did I do? ‘cause I’ve been trying to think what I could have done, why you kicked me out, and I can’t—is it ‘cause I woke you up too often? I know I did, I shouldn’t have called all the time, I knew you were sick, but I didn’t think, I never did, I just was a little drunk and had to call someone and it always was you, and I knew you’d pick up, and it was so nice in your bed—not that it still isn’t—that I didn’t stop. Is that it? Or is it that I borrowed your brush sometimes when we were on tour? Because I said I was sorry for that. Or that time—”

“Harry.” Zayn swallows. He didn’t—he knew Harry was wondering, but he hadn’t expected this, the way Harry was rambling like he did when he was nervous. The way he wouldn’t meet Zayn’s eyes. The way Zayn had hurt Harry. “No, babe, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Then why?” Harry doesn’t look young anymore, he just looks—he just looks like Harry. Like everything Zayn’s wanted for so long. Like everything he needs to stop wanting, because this is hurting him, because it’s not fair to either of them. Because Zayn’s taking advantage as much as Harry is, by not telling him. Because Harry’s not here for him, not really, and he doesn’t know that.

Zayn closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see Harry when he says it. “Because I’m in love with you.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath. “What?” Harry says. It’s more of a squeak.

“Because I’m in love with you,” Zayn repeats. It’s no easier the second time, scraping over his throat with the rest of his breath. He really doesn’t want to open his eyes. “And I—I’m trying to, like, stop. That’s what this is. I just—I can’t stop with you here. And I need to.”

There’s no sound for a long moment. If Zayn doesn’t open his eyes, he thinks maybe he can pretend he never said that. He can pretend he didn’t just ruin everything. At least now Harry will go away. At least now Harry will leave him to get over him in peace—except that hurts even worse. Except who will take care of Harry, if Zayn isn’t there? What will happen to the band? What will happen to them, to this them that matters more than all of these horrible aching feelings in Zayn’s chest? Why isn’t Harry talking? Harry always talks, always has something to say, even if it’s utterly inane.

He has to, he figures. He needs to open his eyes and see the truth. Maybe that’ll be the final straw. The real, final confirmation that Harry doesn’t love him back, not like that. Maybe it’ll help. Zayn’s not confident of that, because he’s never loved with the intention of being loved back, not when he fell for a bright-eyed dark haired boy at fifteen and did his English homework for him for a month, not when he was seventeen and fell for a girl with brown eyes and hair like sunshine and he painted things to make her smile the same even though he didn’t think she ever knew his name. He’s never loved to take. Not even when it ended with him alone in bed, not now, when he starts coughing again before he can decide properly to open his eyes, his throat burning and his chest aching like all of the weight that’s been lying on him has settled there.

Harry doesn’t touch him, as he wheezes, his legs curling up into his chest to brace himself. When he’s done, he has to open his eyes to wipe the water away, and he can’t help but see Harry.

Harry’s eyes are huge, and his mouth’s fallen open, and he looks like someone just told him that the baby isn’t his, utterly gobsmacked.

“Harry?” Zayn asks. He didn’t—this wasn’t supposed to break him. This was breaking Zayn, but never Harry. Even if he knows how to put Harry back together more than him, and he’s—he’s coming together. He can feel all the weight on his chest, but he’s not crushed under it. He’s still here. “You okay?”

Harry shakes his head—not as negation, just to clear it. “You—” he stops, tugs on his hair. Zayn reaches out to soothe—then pulls his hand back. He can’t. He hasn’t the right, not if Harry’s too freaked out by this. And he probably shouldn’t anyway. “ _Zayn_.”

“I don’t—like, I’m not telling you ‘cause I want anything. I don’t. Just, don’t, like, don’t blame yourself, yeah? It’s not you, it’s me.”

Harry almost smiles. “You breaking up with me, Malik?”

Zayn bites at his lip. “But, like, yeah, sort of. I need to, ‘cause I just—I wasn’t—” He swallows. “Like, I can’t do this anymore, you know? I have to find me.”

“But you’re right here.” Harry reaches out, like he’s going to touch Zayn—and Zayn pulls away again, because he wants so much not to. Because he wants to let Harry tell him he’s here, where Harry needs.

“But, like, I haven’t been. I’ve been…” he trails off, but he owes it to Harry to explain this. To come clean, to get it off his chest. To make sure Harry knows it’s all on Zayn. “I’ve been wherever you need me,” he confesses. “And I can’t be.”

“I didn’t—” Harry’s face contorts, and this time it’s Zayn who reaches out, who cups Harry’s face with his hand, smooths out the lines on his forehead.

“I know, babe. It’s me, it’s not you.”

“Yeah.” For the first time in longer than Zayn can remember, Harry doesn’t relax under Zayn’s hand. It hurts more than anything. “In love?”

Zayn chokes out a laugh, then forces himself to inhale. He can’t start coughing now. “Yeah.”

“All this time?”

“No. Not since, like, the beginning. I dunno, a few years or so?” Zayn shrugs. He doesn’t want to look at Harry, but he has to.

“Is that why you’ve been so good about listening to me?”

“No.” Zayn pauses, thinks, but—“Like, that’s cause I love you, but not ‘cause I’m in love with you. Because I do. Both ways.” Harry’s still just staring at him, but his lips are starting to press together like he does when he’s not sure how he’s feeling but he thinks it’s bad, so Zayn hurries on, “And I didn’t—I wouldn’t ever, like, try anything—it wasn’t about getting you into my bed or anything, that wasn’t the point, I wasn’t—”

“Zayn.” Harry’s hand moves faster than Zayn can dodge this time, muffles him. His palm is hot against Zayn’s lips and Zayn can only stare. “Don’t—don’t talk right now. I need to be here, tonight, can I?” Zayn nods. “Okay. Just—be here. Please?” Zayn nods, and Harry nods back, then moves his hand.

Zayn closes his eyes again. He doesn’t know—this is usually easy, him and Harry in a bed, it has been since the beginning, since any emotions other than a wary fondness were there. But now—does Harry want him to touch him? Does he want to touch Harry? Or, more accurately, should he let himself, because he wants to, wants to hold Harry close and brush away all his problems. But he doesn’t know what Harry wants, and maybe he’s a coward, because he evens out his breath and tries to relax, tries to sleep because he doesn’t have to deal with any of this when he’s asleep.

The fake sleep turns pretty quickly into real sleep, though. Zayn’s right on the cusp of it when there are hands on his shoulders, gently rolling him over; when his arm’s being pulled over a waist and his chest is pressed against a warm back, and it’s with the knowledge that Harry’s there that Zayn finally falls asleep again.

\---

The bed is empty when Zayn wakes up. 

Zayn knows it before he opens his eyes, before he rolls over into the vacant space. It’s not the lack of Harry’s arm over him, or any other sort of physical marker—he just knows. Harry’s gone.

He turns onto his back. The space where Harry was is cold, except for the cat curled in the middle of it. Zayn doesn’t know how early he left, how quickly he ran, but he’s gone. He told Harry, and he’s gone.

He should be, probably. Zayn knows that. He took advantage of Harry too, using his grief as a way for him to get something from Harry, and of course Harry should be uncomfortable. Of course he should not want to be around Zayn for a while, of course, and Zayn can live with that. He should probably go back to sleep anyway, ask whoever’s on shift to bring him something to eat, maybe some ice cream to soothe his throat, and when did he become such a fucking cliché?

Because he is. Zayn’d thought he was being noble, being good, but he realizes now, in his too-empty bed, with his room a mess around him and birds singing outside, that he wasn’t. He’s a cliché. He’s sitting here wasting away from unrequited love. He’s one ghost away from becoming a Romantic heroine, and one bucket of ice cream away from being a rom com heroine like the ones Harry pretends he isn’t fond of. He’s probably lucky no one’s letting him have alcohol or he might have been some sort of Hemingway, drinking and smoking in his room until the pain went away, until his friends took him off what’s effectively fucking suicide watch. And when did that happen?

He wasn’t always this. He wasn’t always pathetic. He doesn’t know what brought him here, love or his own complexes or even just the phlegm in his lungs, but he’s tired of it. He’s tired of being a cliché, of being pathetic. He’s tired of lying here excusing Harry for everything. He’s tired of his friends giving him worried looks, of not being able to go out and do the things he loves because he’s stuck here. He’s tired of being tired.

He might not know where to find himself again—and there’s another cliché—but it’s not in this bed. He’s more than this. He was more than this, once. He’s lit up a stage. He’s met the bloody prince of Wales. He is not going to die of love.

There are a few interruptions for coughing, but Zayn gets out of bed. He takes a shower, and doesn’t pretend not to think of washing off all the places Harry touched, washing Harry out of him. Washing this person he’s become off.

He doesn’t bother styling his hair or anything—he’s not stupid, he is still actually sick—but he shaves for the first time since he got sick. He doesn’t usually love how he looks clean-shaven, feels like he looks younger than he’d like, but it’s refreshing now, to look at a face that looks young. That doesn’t look old and jaded and something out of the second act of a romantic comedy. He pulls on loose jeans that might have once been Liam’s, a t-shirt whose provenance he doesn’t know but he’s almost certain he would never have bought because it’s got some sort of sport’s team on it, and gives the room one last look.

His phone is still on the bedside table where he left it last night after listening to Harry’s voicemail message. Zayn crosses back to pick it up. There are a couple texts from his family, one from Louis, all just checking in. Zayn ignores all of them, opens one window, his texts with Harry. It’s filled with all the drunk texts Harry sent him over the last two weeks, lines and lines of text on Harry’s side and only that one line on Zayn’s. Zayn bites his lip, but he needs to do this. He wants to not be this anymore.

_I’m sorry_ , he types, hits send, and turns off his phone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me through this! I hope you enjoy the last chapter!

Downstairs, Liam almost jumps to his feet when he sees Zayn up again. “Zayn! Are you okay?”

His limbs aren’t entirely steady still, and it’s not easy to breathe—he can’t sing, for sure, and thank god this happened on a break, but—“Yeah,” Zayn answers, throwing himself on the couch next to Liam. He grabs the remote from the coffee table, flicks on the Xbox, opens Super Smash Brothers, which was apparently the last thing anyone’d played, though he doesn’t know when he did. Maybe the boys have been amusing themselves while Zayn sleeps. “Let’s play.”

“Zayn—” Liam’s making his concerned face. Zayn really doesn’t want to see it anymore.

“Let’s play,” he says again, and chooses Bowser.

The nice thing about Liam is once you actually start a game, he’s competitive enough that he forgets about things in order to win, so Zayn can just focus on his fingers on the controller, remembering combinations, smashing Liam’s Mario into the ground. It’s after their third round that Zayn finally says, right as he executes a kick combo he’s pretty proud of, “I told Harry.”

“What?” Liam fumbles with his controller, goes down.

Zayn’s not going to let that opportunity pass, and pounds into him on screen. “Harry was here last night. I told him I was in love with him.”

“Here?” The screen pauses; Zayn can’t put off looking at Liam any more. He’s got his most worried face on, the one Zayn hasn’t seen for years, not since that first tour it feels like, when Liam was still always worried they were going to lose everything. When it was him crawling into Zayn’s bed sometimes, to let Zayn reassure him until he could sleep. “I’m so sorry, Zayn, Niall was on last night, you know he can’t—”

“It’s fine.” Or it will be. “I needed to tell him. Like, catharsis or whatever. And he broke up with Ben.”

“What?”

“He broke up with Ben. That’s why he was here.” Zayn shakes his head, strokes his hand over his smooth chin. “It’s fine. Don’t yell at Niall.”

“It’s not—are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Liam gives him a look, and Zayn rolls his eyes. “Fine, I will be fine. I just thought you should know—all of you, tell the others.” He hits the start button, but Liam pauses it again immediately.

“No, Zayn, this is big. Are you okay? Did Harry take it okay? What can we do?”

“We’re going to play video games until we can’t anymore, than you’re going to go home.”

“Zayn—”

“You’re going to go home,” Zayn keeps going, cutting Liam off. This would be easier with one of the other boys, but Liam needs to fix things, can’t let things that are broken go. But Zayn’s not broken. Or if he is, he’s finding a way to fix himself again. “And stop taking shifts. I’m sick, I’m not dying.”

“You might be.”

How much did his collapse scare them? “I’m on the mend, we both know it.” Zayn catches Liam’s gaze, holds it. “This is what I need, Liam. Please.”

Liam’s lips press together, and it looks like it’s going against everything he believes in, but he nods. Before Zayn can unpause the game, though, he reaches out to put his hand over Zayn’s.

“We don’t mind,” he says, earnest and sincere like only Liam can be. “It’s not a burden, to look after you.”

“I don’t need to be looked after.”

“Sure you do.” Liam squeezes his hand, then lets go, leans back into the couch. “We all do.” He grins when Zayn makes a face, his huge grin that Zayn’s missed, dammit, the one that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners, that makes his whole face squish up. How long has it been since Liam looked at him like that, without concern? “It’s okay. You’re a little thick. We love you anyway.”

“I’m thick?” Zayn sputters, and shoves at Liam’s shoulder. “Who didn’t think comedic was a word?”

“That was years ago!” Liam protests.

“And gesticulative?”

“It’s a weird word!” Liam retorts, and Zayn tugs him close so he can feel Liam’s laughter against his chest. Liam wraps his arms around him, those big hugs that Zayn’s always been able to anchor himself in, that’s always made Zayn feel safer than anything else outside of home.

“It’s okay to be looked after,” Liam mutters, into his ear. “That’s what we’re for.”

It might be true. It is true, and Zayn loves him for it. But Zayn’s sick of needing it.

\---

Liam leaves in the evening, promising to tell the other boys not to come over. Once he’s gone, Zayn goes back up to his room. He throws all the sweatpants and stuff he’s gone through in the wash, strips the sheets off his beds and adds those in. It’s more tiring than he’d like, and he has to take a few rests of sitting on the bed and taking long, deep breaths, but eventually it’s done. He opens the windows too, so it doesn’t feel like some nineteenth century sick room. It’s cold out, and he knows he shouldn’t keep them open for long, but it’s been so long since he breathed fresh air he’ll take it.

He closes the windows again, and with only one glance at the phone on his nightstand, goes back downstairs. He puts on the first season Friends, and opens up his computer. He hasn’t checked twitter in ages, but he goes there, scrolling through pages of news, of gossip, of good and bad. He doesn’t tweet anything, because—because—but when he checks Liam’s twitter it’s apparent he’s keeping everyone updated on Zayn’s convalescence.

He checks Louis and Niall’s twitters too, just because, but there’s nothing noteworthy on them—then, because he’s being normal, he’s being him—he checks Harry’s.

Of course there’s nothing explicit on it. There are some enigmatically sad song lyrics, one ‘Everyone send good will to Zayn so he’ll feel better soon!’ from just after he got sick, but nothing else real.

He could open his phone, could see if he got anything from Harry, if he drunk texted or called or—or no.

Instead, Zayn pulls open his photobooth, angles his computer. He looks worn out, but that’s nothing a filter won’t fix; other than he’s fine. He snaps the selfie, chooses a greyscale filter that doesn’t show how pale he’s gotten, and captions it ‘why is getting better so slow?’ and posts it.

Then he closes his computer, and watches Friends until he falls asleep on the couch.

\---

He wakes up at noon the next morning, still on the couch, and just breathes in the quiet. It hasn’t been this quiet when he wakes up in ages—there’ve been the boys for the last few weeks, Harry before that. He’d forgotten how nice this is, knowing he had the space to himself. That there’s no one here, no one with claims on him, no one asking things of him.

He doesn’t bother taking a shower, just brushes his teeth then goes to his kitchen for the first time in weeks. There’s more in there than usual, a huge vat of soup, plenty of green vegetables that Zayn’s certain he never bought. He pours himself a bowl of cereal, puts water on for tea, and leans against the counter to wait for it to boil. He can do anything. Well, he probably shouldn’t paint, with the fumes, but he can do anything. He doesn’t—he doesn’t have to think about anyone. About anything. He can pretend he’s not worrying about Harry, about how he’s dealing with the break up and the Zayn’s confession, pretend breathing is easy and his throat isn’t hurting and he doesn’t have a headache, and just sit here and watch the water boil.

He’s just pouring himself a mug when the door bangs open. Zayn doesn’t bother asking who it is; only one person opens his door like that. Instead he sighs, and pours another mug of tea.

Sure enough, Louis strides in a moment later.

“I told you not to come,” Zayn points out, handing him the mug. Louis takes it, and gives Zayn a pointed look.

“Liam said. If you’d had your phone on so I could check on you, it might have worked.”

Right. Maybe he should have checked his phone for that. But, Zayn shrugs. “So nothing unusual.”

“Not at all.” Louis’s gaze scrapes over him, head to toe. “You look better.”

“I feel better.” He takes a sip of his tea, lets it warm him up, inside out. “Why are you here, Louis?”

“To make sure you didn’t cough yourself to death.” Zayn raises his eyebrows, waits; Louis snorts out a laugh. “Fine. Because Liam told us you told Harry you loved him, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t drowning your sorrows.”

“I’m not.” Zayn waves to himself, how alive he looks. “See? So you can go.”

“And,” Louis continues, like Zayn hadn’t spoken, “To tell you Harry’s okay. We’ve been chilling with him, since you kicked all of us out now. He’s drowning his sorrows in ice cream and a lot of rom coms. It’s been a real upper of a week, let me tell you.”

It’s good to hear. Zayn’s glad. Zayn’s sort of aching that he can’t go and help, that he isn’t the one cuddling Harry through infinite love stories and telling Harry it’ll be okay someone loves him, but he’s glad he’s fine. And the ache is better. It’s not taking him over, it’s just a heaviness in him. He can focus on something else.

“And,” Louis’s still going, “And because I missed you while you were being all angsty.” He glances away, bashful as he always is when showing actual emotion. “Can’t I just want to hang out with my best friend?”

It gets a laugh out of Zayn, and he puts down his tea to throw an arm over Louis’s shoulder. “Fifa?”

“Don’t think I’ll go easy on you because you’re sick,” Louis warns.

“Don’t think I’ll go easy on you because I’m better than you,” Zayn retorts, and Louis laughs.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he mutters, and Zayn smiles. So has he.

\---

Zayn turns his phone on once Louis’s gone, to an interview apparently. One good thing about being sick is he’s missing a lot of the album promo. It’ll only add to his unsociable image, but Zayn can’t bring himself to care. It’s better than starting to cough during an interview and everyone deciding he has lung cancer. Though he hates missing rehearsals; it’s itching at him, that old need, the one to sing again. The one that’s missing the feeling of being even on a stimulated stage, his boys around him, the five of them together against everything.

The phone’s filled with texts, mostly from people checking in. He replies to all of them, calls him mum because she’s been worried even though it looks like Louis’s been keeping her updated. That turns into individual talks with each family member who’s home, and it settles in Zayn, how good it feels. When his mum asks if he’s coming home, he tells her he’ll be there as soon as he’s feeling well enough, and the promise of it makes him smile foolishly at the wall.

His phone buzzes just as he’s saying his good-byes to Safaa. He checks it as soon as he hangs up.

_Can I come over?_ It reads, and Zayn’s breath catches in his throat. But he’s carrying the warmth of his call with his family, of his day with Louis, of these things he loves, and he knows he does owe Harry this much, so he texts Harry back.

_Yeah_.

_Great! Be there in 30 xx_

\---

Zayn refuses to even look at a mirror before Harry comes over. Harry’s seen him at his worst; he shouldn’t care. He doesn’t. Or he’s trying not to.

So instead of fussing, instead of worrying, Zayn puts in his headphones, lies down on the couch, and closes his eyes. He doesn’t mean to go to sleep, he really doesn’t, but he’s still more or less constantly exhausted and he happens to put on a quiet song, so he can’t really help it.

He wakes with the feeling someone’s watching. It’s nothing he can quantify, but like knowing the bed was empty, he knows someone’s watching him, and he’s not surprised when he opens his eyes and Harry’s sitting in an armchair. He’s got a book open on his lap, but he’s just looking at Zayn, his dimples hinting in his cheeks like he’s just on the edge of smiling.

“You’re getting to Edward Cullen levels of creepy, Haz,” Zayn yawns, sitting up. Harry does break into a smile then, his head ducking like he’s embarrassed.

“Well, you should stop being so attractive, then,” he retorts. Zayn blinks. Harry’s always been a flirt, but the way Harry says it sounds different. Sounds heavy with intent.

But he must be imagining it, so he just tugs off his headphones and sets his phone aside, using the motion to give him time to gather himself. He can do this. Whatever Harry has to say, he can do this. He doesn’t—he shouldn’t see all the things about Harry that aren’t quite so confident, the slight bags under his eyes and the way he’s a little slumped.

“You okay?” Zayn asks. He can’t not.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Zayn shrugs. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” Harry glances away then, his shoulders slumping more. “I—I should have asked more, seems like. I’m sorry about that.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” Is Zayn the only one who gets this?

“No, but, I should have asked.” Harry rubs at the back of his neck, then looks up, straight at Zayn, and Zayn—Zayn knows the look in his eyes. It’s the look he gets before he’s about the make a bad joke, before he’s about to say something on live TV that anyone else would get slaughtered for but that Harry gets away with because it’s Harry. “Should have done a lot of things, it seems.”

“Harry?”

Harry gets up. When he moves to the couch, it’s with his hips swinging a little, his smile lopsided and smirking. And Zayn knows this look too, remembers this look from when Harry had decided he wanted Ben, from every club when Harry had decided he wanted someone, but why is it being turned on him? Is this some awful revenge prank?

He sits down next to Zayn, close enough their thighs are touching. Zayn’s frozen, a deer in headlights. He should move away but he can’t, wants to move forward into Harry but he shouldn’t do that.

“Harry?” he asks again. His voice is higher than it should be, but he’s not shaking.

“Are you still contagious?” Harry asks. His voice is low; Zayn can almost feel the vibrations.

“I’m not feeling feverish anymore.” But hot so hot right now maybe he is. “Might be, though. Why?”

“Because I’m going to kiss you if you aren’t.”

Zayn jolts back, almost falling over. “The fuck?”

“Well, I don’t want to get sick,” Harry explains, still with that hot look, like that’s the part of his statement that needed explaining.

“Are you joking? Is this some sort of prank?” Zayn spits. He jumps to his feet, to put space between him and Harry. He knows what he did wasn’t maybe morally the best, but he—but this—“Fuck you.”

“What? No!” The heat’s dropped from Harry’s voice, and it’s higher now, faster, as Harry lunges off the couch to grab Zayn’s wrist so he can’t walk away. “No, I meant it!”

“That’s not better!” Zayn doesn’t go away, but he edges as far back as he can with Harry’s hand still on him, holding tight. “You aren’t usually mean, Harry.”

“Why is it mean?” Harry demands. He stands up too, without letting go of Zayn, and that’s worse. That’s all of Harry, broad shoulders with his shirt gaping open at the chest and his necklaces hitting his broad chest and his jeans snug on his ass and thighs and his hair falling into his eyes and his full lips and his big hand over Zayn’s wrist and Zayn’s chest is hurting again. “I want to kiss you. You want to kiss me.”

“Because I don’t just want to kiss you!” Zayn just wants to run back to his room. He can give Harry a lot, he would have given Harry everything, but he can’t do this. Not now. Not when he’s been doing so well.

“Perfect! I don’t want to just kiss you either.” Harry takes a step forward; Zayn steps back. “Zayn. What’re you doing?”

“What am I—what are you doing?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious.” Harry tilts his head, brushes his hair out of his face. Zayn traces the motion helplessly, tamping down on the urge to do it himself, to tuck that lock of hair behind Harry’s ear, and instead falls back. “I’m—you said you were in love with me!” he finished, almost accusatory.

“I am, it’s, like—it’s not obvious, Harry, it’s really fucking not.” His breath is coming faster and harder and it’s stinging and he really wants to sit down to deal with this before he just falls over.

“You said you were in love with me. I’d never thought of that before, because you weren’t in love with me before, but now you are! So we should be together!” Harry finishes with a smile, like a little kid who just answered a question right in class.

“Together?” Zayn echoes, “To—” The coughing hits him, and he catches it in his elbow as Harry waits, bouncing on his feet. “But you—you said. You got over me.”

“Well, mainly. Have you seen you? I got over you maybe ninety-five percent. On a good day. On a bad day…” Harry shrugs.

Zayn still can’t breathe, still wants to let Harry pull him into him and forget everything in him, just lose himself in Harry’s touch, but this isn’t making sense. Harry’d gotten over him.

Harry, being Harry, knows he’s processing, knows his lack of response isn’t a rejection, so he steps forward again, hips swaying. Zayn can’t even move backwards, doesn’t know how. “So I want to kiss you,” he repeats, softly. His other hand comes up to cup Zayn’s cheek. “And I would if you weren’t contagious. But as soon as you aren’t…”

Zayn still can’t move as Harry presses closer, his hand sliding up around Zayn’s neck, like they are about to kiss. He doesn’t know what to do, can’t stop his hand from sliding around Harry’s waist to the small of his back like he’s done so often. Harry purrs—and Zayn gets a sudden flash of that pool in Brazil, of Harry standing wrapped around Ben like this, whispering in his ear.

He just found himself. He’s not going to lose himself again, even to this sweetest of boys.

He steps back. “No.”

“What?” Harry’s brow furrows, and he sways forward like he doesn’t know what to do without someone to lean on. Which is what this is, Zayn knows. It makes sense now. “No?”

It might be the first time Zayn’s ever said that to Harry, the first time he’s said it and meant it when it wasn’t something like ‘no, you aren’t allowed to eat stage food’.

“No,” Zayn repeats. It feels like it rips his throat on the way out, but he will not be a cliché, he will not be pathetic, he will not give everything. He will not end up in that bed again. “No. I will not be your rebound, Harry. I can’t do that.”

“Rebound?” Harry cocks his head. “You aren’t—I mean, this isn’t a rebound.”

“You broke up with Ben three days ago,” Zayn points out. As gently as he can, he frees his hand from Harry, and backs up until there’s plenty of space between them, space enough to let him breathe. “It’s a rebound. You just don’t want to be alone.”

“I was sleeping with you for the last month!” Harry objects. “And I was in love with you years before—”

“I can’t,” Zayn says again. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t, it’s too much, it’d be too much.” It would break him, he knows. And he doesn’t want to be broken. “I’m sorry. But find someone else to be your rebound.”

Harry’s whole body seems to collapse, like someone cut his strings. “You said you were in love with me,” he repeats, plaintive. Zayn’s fists clench, against the urge to just go over there and hug him and take away all his pain. But it would only hurt more, later, when Harry realized he had only wanted Zayn because he was an available substitute for Ben, and then everything would be a thousand times worse. So he doesn’t. Doesn’t hug him, doesn’t murmur comfort in his ear, doesn’t do anything he should do. “You said so.”

“I am.” Zayn nods. “But I’ve got to take care of myself too.” He swallows. “I think you should leave, Haz.”

Harry makes a sound that sounds like he’s holding in a sob. This is hard, Zayn knows; first he breaks up with Ben then Zayn rejects him, but he’ll bounce back. He always does. He gets over things. Still, he’s looking at the floor as he says, “Can I come back? Or am I still not allowed?”

Zayn sighs. But nothing will ever be harder than this, and he knows Harry. Harry’s easily distracted, always off to play with the next toy. He’ll get Liam to take him out, he’ll find someone to fuck, and he’ll forget about this and they’ll go back to being friends. “You can come,” he allows. “But right now, you have to go.”

“Yeah.” Harry tugs on a lock of his hair, shifting between his feet. Then he looks up again, almost sheepish. “It wasn’t—I never meant for you to get hurt. Ever.”

“I know.” Zayn rubs at the back of his neck. He’s tired again. “Don’t worry, Harry. I know.”

\---

The next morning, he goes home. He can’t look at his bed anymore, and he knows Harry well enough to know ‘come back’ might mean the next day, and he needs space, and he wants his mother. He wants his mother and his old bed and his sisters and his father, wants all his old things. Well, some old things—he’s still not quite managed to get out of the habit of storing things here, so it’s a combination of his teenage self and some of the stuff he’s brought home from tours. It’s where he needs to be. He doesn’t know why he ever stayed away.

He spends a week there, eating his mother’s cooking, listening to his sisters bicker, watching TV with his father in companionable silence. He doesn’t know if it’s getting out of London, or time, or being around his family, but he coughs less, feels less tired. He keeps his phone on, because Liam is actually checking in every few hours like he thinks Zayn’s going to have a freak out in the interim, and Louis gets antsy if he hasn’t heard from Zayn in too long, and even Niall texts once or twice, images of things he thinks is amusing.

Harry doesn’t text. Zayn tries not to read anything into that, but decides that he must have realized it was a rebound and found someone else. It’s good. Zayn will get over him, like he got over the girl with the sunshine hair and the bright-eyed boy, and they’ll be friends again. It’s harder, this time, because Harry’s not just the boy with the lovely hair and a smile that Zayn can feel in his chest, he’s also the boy who’s been with Zayn through everything, who makes Zayn smile when he’s caught in his head and makes things easy and simple and right, the boy who needs Zayn to cuddle him when he’s hurting and to take him home when he’s drunk. Who’s trying to grow up so hard, so fast, and doesn’t realize that’s not how you do it. Who loves babies so much it makes Zayn ache to see him with them, but can’t manage to make dogs like him. Zayn knows every one of Harry’s quirks, all his flaws, his pettiness and self-absorption and flightiness, and loves him anyway.

But he’ll get over him. He will. Eventually. As soon as he can breathe without it hurting again.

He’s in the living room, paging idly through twitter, passing quickly over another weird tweet from Harry that sounds mournful and pensive but he probably just liked the alliteration of or something because he’s not half so deep as he likes to think he is, when his dad speaks up from the other chair.

“It’s been nice having you here.”

Zayn almost drops his phone, startled. His father isn’t much for what seems like idle small talk. “It’s been good being here,” he agrees. “Sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

His father nods. They can hear his mother puttering in the kitchen, getting dinner ready; Safaa’s upstairs doing homework, Waliyha’s on her phone in her room, or was when Zayn walked by a few minutes ago. It feels like he’s sixteen again.

It’s because of that, maybe, that feeling young and unsure, that he asks. Or maybe it’s that it’s his father, who he’s so much like his mother sometimes sighs and beams at them both. Or maybe it’s just that he needs someone, and there’s no one he trusts as much as his dad to be fair and tell him the truth. But any way, “Would you die for mum?” he asks. He brings his legs up to his chest, turns sideways in his armchair so his back is resting against the arm.

His dad’s eyebrows go up. “Where’d that come from?”

“Just, like,” Zayn shakes his head, pushes his hair out of his eyes. But he’s never been able to resist his father’s steady gaze, so, “I dunno. Thinking about love, and shit. What it’s like.”

Yasser sighs, nods slowly. He takes a moment before he answers, which means he’s thinking about it. Zayn appreciates that. He and his dad don’t often talk about emotional things, but there has never been a moment in his life when his father failed him either. And Zayn doesn’t know anyone who love each other like his parents do.

“Of course,” he answers at last, slowly. “If it was my life or your mother’s, of course I’d want her to live.”

Zayn nods. “Then…” he picks at a loose thread on the chair. “Do you think someone can love two people at once?”

It gets him another long, even look. Is this what the boys feel like when he’s waiting for them? He’d learned his silence from his father after all, learned how not saying anything can be as powerful as talking.

“Like, if you had met mom, but she thought it couldn’t, like, you weren’t into her, so she gave up and started going out with someone else.” He’s being horribly unsubtle, but he thinks he gave up the subtle ghost long ago, and he needs someone neutral. “And she liked him, she did, but you and her stayed friends and all. Then she broke up with the other guy, and decided she wanted to be with you, right away.” He’s nearly worked the thread loose. “Like, you can’t trust that, right? Do you think she’d really still want you?”

“I think I’d always love your father, no matter what.” Zayn glances up. His mother’s come in sometime, is leaning over the back of the couch over his father’s shoulder, her arms on his shoulders and her cheek resting against his hair. It almost hurts to look at them. Sometimes Zayn wonders if this is why he does this, why he falls so far and deep—because he’s seen it work. “Doesn’t matter who else I loved in the mean time.”

His dad tilts his head back to smile, and his mother presses a kiss to his temple. It’s ridiculously sweet, and Zayn has a sudden flash of him and Harry, of how Harry sometimes throws his arm over Zayn’s shoulder and their heads rest against together. Of how Harry sometimes leans over his shoulder to see what he’s reading, how they fit like that.

Except they aren’t his parents. They aren’t those people, and it’s not that simple. Harry’s hasn’t always loved him, Harry loved Ben, and Zayn can’t risk himself for Harry’s fleeting whims. Maybe he’s learned that, at least. There are things he can’t give.

“Zayn,” his mother says, softly, “What’s this about, love?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Nothing.”

She raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything, just pats Yasser’s shoulder and wanders back into the kitchen. Zayn can still feel his father’s gaze on him, though, and glances down again. He doesn’t need anything. He’s fine.

“I’m not sure I would have trusted her,” his father says. Zayn thinks it might be meant to sound casual, but his father doesn’t really do casual conversation, so he knows better. He keeps his head down. He doesn’t need to see the knowing look. He’s not five anymore, he doesn’t actually think his father knows everything worth knowing. “But if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten all of this.” Then he gets up, and Zayn can hear him walking away, probably to the kitchen to see if he can do anything for dinner.

Zayn fiddles with the string again, tugging and tugging until it slides out of the weave. It sounds so simple when you know this is where you’ll end up, this house with your children around you. But Zayn doesn’t know that, doesn’t know if in twenty years he’ll have a house with Harry and maybe some kids and all his cats and dogs and Harry wrapping his arms around him from behind and murmuring how lucky they are. He might just end up in bed again, with an ache in his chest that’s a lot less real but no less painful.

\---

As much as he loves Bradford, loves his home and his parents and his sisters, he has to leave eventually. And he wants to, he finds. He wants to see the boys, after reading the texts they send. Wants to see his pets, even if Liam has been sending snapchats of them. He even wants his bed, though he thinks he might have to alternate with the couch for the next few weeks. And it’s time. He’s barely more tired than usual, his headache’s receded, his mother declared his fever officially gone. He’s coughing less, and he’s just itching to sing. His sisters have started yelling at him again for singing in his room. It feels just like old times.

The lights are on when the car pulls up in front of Zayn’s house. It could be anyone—could be his cleaning service, could be Liam dropping by to pet-sit, could be Louis raiding his fridge, could be Niall deciding he needed to get away. But it’s not. And he knows it even as he pushes open the door, before the scent of grilled chicken comes wafting through the house. Before Hatchi comes pounding up to jump on him, and even Benji and Prada slink over, rubbing against his knees as he drops his bags and kneels down to properly greet Hatchi.

When the pets are finally satisfied, he raises his head—and Harry’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the door jamb. He’s dressed like he’s actually put effort into his outfit—all in black, his shirt of course open at the chest, his hair soft and flowing around his face—and he’s smiling at Zayn in a way that, coming off of a week with his family, Zayn can almost think of as how his mother sometimes looks at his father when he’s not looking.

But that’s not right. He shouldn’t think like that. That’s dangerous.

“Hey,” he says instead, and concentrates on giving Hatchi’s head an extra pet.

“Hey.” Harry says it in that way he does that makes it sound like a statement, like the most important thing anyone’s ever said. He’s still got that stupid smile on. Zayn swallows. He’s better. He should be able to breathe. “You’re home.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Zayn retorts. He doesn’t bother asking how Harry knew he’d be here. There aren’t any secrets in this band, except for apparently the most important ones.

So instead he gets up. “What’re you doing here?” he asks. He smiles to soften it, because he really doesn’t mean it to be an accusation. They need to find their way back to friendship, and he’s never turned one of his boys away from his door, and he doesn’t mean to do it again.

Harry tugs at his hair though, his shoulders bobbing like he does when he’s nervous. “If you don’t want me here…”

“No.” Zayn steels himself, then walks over to put a hand on either one of Harry’s shoulders, stopping him from moving. “No, it’s fine, I want you here, babe. I’m not mad.”

“Good.” Zayn has to look away from the force of Harry’s beaming smile, the way his hands go up to rest over Zayn’s, keeping them there. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s still just smiling at him, and he’s close enough that Zayn could count the shades of his eyes, if he wanted to let himself. “Like, home, you know? Always good.”

“Everyone good there?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re really feeling better? How’s your cough?”

“I’m fine, Haz.” Zayn rolls his eyes, and Harry sticks his tongue out back at him. “I—”

Something beeps, and Zayn cuts off, because that sounded like the oven timer.

“One sec.” Harry removes his hands, gives Zayn a final blinding grin, then ambles into the kitchen. Zayn follows. It feels—it feels like before, like Harry had been in Zayn’s bed last night and was coming by to make him apology dinner. Like everything was all right.

Harry’s bent over at the oven, taking something out, and Zayn’s gaze skirts over the curve of his ass before he has to distract himself so he doesn’t ruin this, and turns away, towards the dining room. Usually, the table’s piled with random shit he never gets around to putting away, mail and stuff, but it doesn’t look like that now, so Zayn wanders in—then freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

The table’s set for two, white tablecloth, candles, china, cloth napkins. Flowers in the center. It looks like a table that could be in a restaurant. It looks like a table that’s set for a date.

Zayn turns around, slowly. Harry’s standing there, his hands clasped around a platter, but he doesn’t look nervous anymore. His chin’s jutting out like he’s stubborn.

“Harry?” His voice almost cracks, but Zayn thinks he manages to keep it somewhat dignified. More so than his heart feels, about to beat out of his chest. He’d said—he can’t. “Harry, what is this?”

“This is me showing you how much I love and value and care about you.” Harry very carefully sets the platter on the center of the table over a trivet, adjusts it minutely, then turns back to Zayn. “Because you’re not a rebound. And I’m going to show you that.”

“Haz, you don’t have to—like, I never meant this.” Zayn waves a hand. “I wasn’t asking something of you.”

“I know. I’m asking it of you.” Harry stops, shakes his head. “No, I’m not asking anything else from you. I just—so, after you told me, I had to think things over, you know? So I went home. And thought. And yeah, I guess it’s a little weird that you were in love with me and I was still, like, sleeping with you or whatever, but it’s not like you ever did anything I didn’t want.”

Zayn puts out a hand to brace himself on the table, and Harry cuts off immediately. “You okay?

Zayn nods.

“So,” Harry continues, “So that wasn’t an issue. And, back before, I mean, I was all over you, and you didn’t know, so it would have been hypocritical otherwise.” He narrows his eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right? You can sit down, I’m apparently going to be making a speech.”

Zayn doesn’t want to sit down. Sitting down means he can’t handle this, and he can, he will. He’ll let Harry do this, and then he’ll do what’s best for him. “I’m good.”

“And so, yeah, that happened. And then, like, then there was Ben. And I did love him, and it was good. I know Louis and all think it wasn’t on and all, but it was good. He was good.” Zayn nods. He knows this. “But even then—even then, when things were bad, like, I couldn’t go to him, you know? I could try, but he didn’t have time, not really. And anyway, I wanted to go to you.” Harry brushes his hair out of his face, tucks it behind his ear. “Even when I was with Ben, when I was with anyone, I’ve never slept better than with you. Or around you.”

Zayn’s shaking his head, almost desperately. He could stand against Harry’s seduction, his sly smirks and dancing eyes, but this, the sincerity, the openness, the sweetness of what he’s saying—it’s creeping in him, and he can’t, he can’t let it in, he can’t do that again. “Harry—”

“So that’s what I thought when I came over that first time. But since, I’ve been thinking more, and Louis talked a lot with me, and so did Liam and Niall—”

“Don’t listen to Louis,” Zayn interrupts. “He’s mainly pissed at me, I think. I really scared him.”

“You did. You scared all of us.” Harry pauses. “Did I say that? You scared me, so much. When I saw the pictures and no one had told me anything and they wouldn’t let me see you. I almost thought you were dead and they weren’t telling me for some reason.”

Zayn winces, bites at his lip. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of this.”

“See, but, I know. Now. And anyway, I was talking to them, and I just—I’ve been a really shit friend to you recently. All the in love parts aside. And I’m sorry.”

Zayn shrugs. “You needed me.”

“No, you needed me. And I didn’t realize. And I should have. I think a lot of it was how you’ve always just been—Zayn, you know? You’ve always taken care of me. It never even occurred to me you could need something too. Or that you could feel something for me. I just never even thought you could, I had decided that years ago, it’s how I managed to even sort of move on—”

“Sort of?” Zayn interrupts. He’s pretty sure it was more than sort of. “You got over me. You said.”

“I…may have lied.” Harry ducks his head now. “Or, not really, because I was with Ben and I was—well, it was bad when I said that, but it was good before. But you’re…” he trails off. “Anyway. Back to the point. I had a speech you know,” he adds, and Zayn can’t help his laugh at Harry interrupting himself. “I was going to say it when you got here. But then you were with your pets and I forgot.”

“Short attention span?”

“Sometimes I look at you and forget things.” Harry says it so simply it’s almost like he’s not deconstructing Zayn’s world. “I tried not to. But. Really. So I was thinking, while you were at home posting unfairly hot selfies, and yeah I was hurt ‘cause you had told me no, but then—you had a point. Not that I was rebounding, because I’m not, but that you should think I was. Because I noticed you were ill, but not anything else, and I didn’t push. It’s because I was selfish this happened, so of course I’d use you again. But I’m not going to.” His chin lifts, juts out, like he does when he’s digging in his heels. “I never meant to, and I won’t.”

“I won’t let you.” Zayn has to say it. He thinks it’s true.

“Good.” The smile softens Harry’s face a bit. “Good, ‘cause I might mess up. But, like, I want you to be happy too. And I want me to be happy. And I think we can be happy together.”

“Harry—”

“And I’m not rebounding,” Harry talks over him. “The Ben thing was ending for a long time and you were there the whole time, helping me through it. But I am still getting over it. And we both need to be convinced of that. So.” He gestures to the table. “Dinner. I made chicken parm.”

“Harry, I can’t.” Why isn’t he getting it? That once Zayn falls down this rabbit hole, he’s not getting out again? That it hurts Zayn, every time? “You might be able to get over it if this falls apart, but I can’t, I—”

“Why do you think I could get over it?” Suddenly Harry’s in front of him, lifting his chin so Zayn can’t look away. “That’s not fair either. I could love you as well as you love me!”

“But you don’t!” Zayn stumbles backwards, away from Harry. “You don’t, and that’s okay, as long as I can remember that. I was fine until you started being here all the time!”

“But I want to be here all the time!” Harry stomps his foot, but he doesn’t look childish, not anymore. “I want to be here and take care of you when you’re ill and make you dinner and kiss you and listen to your problems and help you as much as you help me. I want all that too, Zayn! More than you do, apparently.”

Zayn sighs, and it hurts his chest, even though that’s stopped recently. “I want it, but—Haz, you didn’t want this. How am I—I can’t do this again, like, it just—I couldn’t.”

“I know.” Just like that, the anger’s gone, and Harry’s smiling again, smug like he’s gotten his way like he always does. “Which is why I think, and the boys agree, that we should do this.” He sweeps his hand towards the table.

Zayn gives it a wary look. If the other boys were involved, he’s not entirely confident there won’t be a whoopee cushion somewhere. “What’s this?”

“We’ll go slow,” Harry explains, earnest and excited. “So I can get over Ben, and you can convince yourself I’m getting over Ben, and that you aren’t giving too much. And so Louis can make sure I’m not making you do anything, because there were some threats involved.” He makes a face, and Zayn chokes out a laugh. He doesn’t doubt it.

Harry grins back at him, bright-eyed and beautiful, his hair in his face and his whole body tense like he’s ready to spring. “We’ll go as slow as you want,” Harry assures him, leaning forward. “I just—I never really got over you, and I think there’s a reason for that, you know?” he takes a deep breath, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “So, Zayn Malik—would you like to have dinner with me? As a date?”

Zayn inhales sharply. He’s dreamed of those words. Well, not those words, but some like it. He’s dreamed of those words, and he ended up crashing, none of him left to give for the sake of that dream, for the sake of the boy smiling at him nervously, like he doesn’t think Zayn will say no but isn’t sure. Like it matters to him what he says. And he thinks of his father and his mother, smiling at each other; thinks of his boys huddled around him when he’s ill, when they’re on a stage with a thousand people screaming their names, all asking something of them.

He’s tired of being a cliché, of being a trope, of being ill. He’s tired of hurting, but more than that, more than any of that, he’s tired of not being himself. He’s tired of being someone else to save someone pain, even himself.

Because Zayn loves hard and deep; because Zayn will give more than he has for people he loves. And maybe that’s not healthy, and maybe he needs to work on limiting it. But Zayn wants what his parents have, and once Zayn stepped onto that X Factor stage despite how terrified he was, and that got him everything.

He lets out a long, slow exhale, that glides easily over his throat, out of his lungs. “Yeah,” he says, and grins back. His muscles stretch oddly, like he hasn’t smiled like this in a long time. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

“Great!” Harry beams, and grabs Zayn to pull him into a hug, his arms wrapping around him and pulling him tight, like he wants to pull Zayn into him. Zayn slides his arms around Harry’s waist, breathes in the cinnamon scent of him. “I love you, you know?” Harry whispers, his lips brushing against Zayn’s ear, close as they ever are sleeping together. “Before everything else. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Zayn tells him, easier than it’s ever been—then lets go.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Hated it? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/)


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